Payday 2: Cloaked
by R7dig7n
Summary: The Payday gang captures a Cloaker for an upcoming heist. Compliance between both the criminals and the law enforcer is necessary if they all want to go home with their payday.
1. Chapter 1

Wolf ran across the pavement. His shot shoulder wasn't going to be the worst of his problems if he didn't get out of this. It was going to be his shot ass. Either way, he had to not get fucked as the bullet shots started landing near him. Dang, they were really packing rounds when fragments of concrete started flying in front of your eyes.

Wolf bounded over the railing and turned to a corner with the van nearby. It was just a couple yards away. Wolf couldn't believe he was only few breaths away from Hoxton, Houston, and Dallas; the pricks they were for leaving him alone but safety nonetheless, as well as the hard-earned loot bags surrounding them.

"Come on, come on! We're leaving now!" Dallas shouted.

"No shit, Captain Ob."

Wolf ran closer with fading breaths, the van a few feet away. It didn't matter now that his legs would be screaming for days after this ordeal, but his mail orders could not afford to be left alone again.

"Shit! They're here!" Houston yelled.

Then the van started to move.

"Hey _*cough*_ don't _*cough*_ leave* me _*cough*,"_ Wolf breathed on fading stamina.

"Just drop your gear and get in!" Dallas shouted, panic in his voice.

Wolf let his ammunition and unused grenades clatter around the pavement as he ran. His SMG and rifle soon followed.

"Wolf, just drop the loot! We can get some more next time!"

"NO!"

Wolf was not going to let that smug guard not regret his words, ' _You choose the wrong career'_ , and getting the server was going to make him eat his words, even if he is dead. He didn't care that there was rain out that could make him slip. He didn't care if there were bullets now flying past grazing his arms. It was Wolf's time to shine and he would not be shot down. Nothing could concern him now except for his body and the escape vehicle. Well, there were some things that could make him concerned, but how likely would he come into those predicaments?

"CLOAKER!"

Wolf just couldn't seem to catch a break. Surely enough, the dreaded blaring of the police CQC specialist found its way into earshot. Wolf's soul cracked in stress of this doom; and all the other sounds seemed to melt into the whine, rendering Wolf free of human logic. All he felt were the suit he wore underneath a chafing 6-piece armor set, the strap connecting to a weight on his back, the rain falling into the mask eyeholes, and this undesirable, indescribable fear. His mask made death a new face in the eyes of many cops, but it now only felt like a Halloween mask.

Wolf was starting to see the darkness in his mask surrounding his vision. As he got closer to the van, it seemed to smother all light he could see.

"Oh shit, he might make it!"

"But he's in the way-"

"We'll take our chances! We can't afford to lose Wolf at this point when he's already ran this far."

He couldn't see much, but his fellow thieves were much closer to him than ever. A sense of humanity crept into him as he closed the gap. He was getting closer to his brethren. Robbers who robbed with him. Crazy bastards with a common goal. Guys who just want their true Payday. Wolf was a yard away from the back of the van, but it was like fighting a storm at sea just to cover the extra inches. Slowly but surely, Wolf ran until he was a tantalizing foot close to home.

"Damn it Wolf, we can't reach you from here!"

For a moment, Wolf felt the same emotions that turned him to the dirty world of crime. ' _I'm sorry, but your account balance is 0 and cannot allow any checks to be made in it…_ 'The most disheartening words he had ever heard in his life coupled with the memory that his business went and flushed itself down the toilet hit his heart a little too hard. His strained endurance was taking a toll on his mental stability. But if anything Wolf knew that would always save him in this situation, it would be emotions. All of man's greatest endeavors had boiled down to it, and for him, it was some sort of excitement he felt that pushed him to effectively take down his obstacles or enemies.

Or was it the world's fault? He had to fight tooth and nail just to make a living, and now he has to deal with this frustrating shit. But was he supposed to be mad about that, given the chances where he could have stopped and turned around his life? Crime was meant to be a one-time gig, but it now seemed to be the entire world for him. It really was beyond him, and Wolf's psyche finally reached a paradox. How could he have kept working with Bain and the gang when his financial income was already worth millions? He knew it was for the delicious feeling of getting more money than the other guy, but to what end would it be enough? What else was making him keep skipping out from the law?

But as he was just about to realize a logical explanation for his sudden self-introspection, Wolf felt a collision from behind, painfully propelling his focus towards the rapidly approaching van. Intense pain strangled his nerves, his mobility and mental state stunned briefly for the 17th time in this heist. It was the Cloaker.

"Oh shi-"

It was already too late for Wolf to register his fellow heisters' faces as he flew into the van. His forehead collided with the roof of the van, knocking him with pain he regularly dealt with. Unfortunately, he wasn't conscious the moment after to deal with the pain and mishap that would ensue.

* * *

Hoxton fought for his life against the intruder. Damn driver should have stopped and let Wolf jump on. Now there's a Cloaker in the van beating the shit out of him with apparently all of his limbs in the small space. Shit and Bollocks. His defense was really good. Every underhanded technique he was using was beaten with some stupidly clever sleight of hand or confusing body maneuvering. All the guns were even thrown away from reach. All while a skin-crawling blare was ringing. An arm rammed into his face as Hoxton tried in vain to block.

 _Damn this cock knows wrestling better than I do,_ Hoxton thought.

Hoxton was seeing red already. Angrily, he gripped his fists together and tried to hit the bastard in the gut. Sneakily, the spook moved to the left and let his hands break the window.

"Arrrrrrrhhhh!"

Wet blood ran down Hoxton's hands. There was that losing feeling again. Like bar fights at the pub, he knew well when the tables turned on him. He was about to be knocked down and the rest of the crew out on the floor. The van was too cramped with loot bags for him to be moving around to dodge. He pulled his hands out of the glass and quickly grabbed a flying baton. The spook was about to slam his head into submission, but he luckily grabbed both of his hands to prevent the bastard from using them for more harm. The van suddenly swerved to the right, and Hoxton slid sideways on the metal floor, losing grip colliding with the van wall. The spook's fingers squirmed in his hands, before attempting a head-butt. Hoxton moved his head out of the way and struggled to stand on the now-wet van floor. Still, despite the forces that be, the combatants grappled for control over the baton.

Hoxton stared into his opponent's eyes and tried to think of what to do in this situation. He could use the wet floor, but the spook seemed slippery enough. The loot bags could pin the bastard down, but he would just throw them back. However, he was using his legs too much. Hoxton looked to Dallas; stuck under the weight of KO'd Wolf, but with hands free enough to grab something.

"Dallas! Grab one of his legs!"

The spook realized his mistake and tried to change position, but the van suddenly braked. Hoxton and his adversary slid rapidly towards Dallas and Wolf and collided hard enough with the loot bags to daze the law enforcer. In the collision that occurred between them, Dallas gripped the Cloaker's left boot. It struggled furiously like a python in his hands, but he held tight. The van then quickly accelerated. Hoxton quickly grabbed the Cloaker's right foot and let his body slide to the back. A free baton flew towards his face, but missed after an audible pop was heard.

Hoxton smiled to himself. At this point, the spook should have realized that all the martial arts in the world couldn't prepare him for what was coming. Clenching his left hand, he swung down towards the spook's lower region. It came down hard and fast, and the Cloaker could do nothing but grunt in pain. The Cloaker fell forward in seemingly silent, yet endless pain with a dull thud.

They could only hear the sound of rain, speeding wheels, and the still active blaring of the Cloaker radio. Dallas pushed Wolf's body over with a final heave and moved over to Hoxton. Wolf slowly woke up cradling his head and looked over the subdued law enforcer.

"Nice one Hox!"

"Nothing to it."

"Turn that thing off Wolf!"

A baton flung out of the blue and struck Hoxton in his crotch. The Cloaker quickly pulled back his legs and slammed them onto Hoxton's chest. Hoxton, out of breath and peace, fell over in an angry whine, holding together his manhood the best he could.

"FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKK!"

Dallas threw himself and grabbed the Cloaker, pinning him down. The Cloaker 'stabbed' his baton onto his back, but Dallas held firm. Wolf quickly looked around for a weapon. There wasn't a gun in sight and only loot bags. Deciding brute force was the only option; Wolf quickly grabbed his server bag and chucked it at the Cloaker's head. Instead of directly thumping the forehead, the server inside the bag crushed the Cloaker's windpipe, causing a violent halt in circulation. The Cloaker limped over, the whining sound deactivating.

"Guys, what happened?", Bain finally speaking in their earpieces.

"A Cloaker got into the escape van. Lost some blood, but nothing a doctor can't fix," Dallas answered.

"Yeah, a doctor can fix my bloody balls after what happened!-Shit! This bloody burns!"

"Don't worry Bain, we got this handled! The driver got us away in time. We got all the liquid nitrogen and experimental magnets you wanted us to get from the Magellan Facility! For whatever we need that stuff for."

"That's good, Dallas. But I am more concerned about the Cloaker."

"Yeah, it was chasing Wolf when he got in and it landed with us. I think we're going to drop it off in the nearest dumpster and leave it there."

"Wait, no! This...is exactly what I needed for this heist! Instead of hacking the FBI and ATF for their rosters, which would require another heist from you guys, we can use the radio the Cloaker has to help me target police personnel in the next place you rob."

"So do we just take the radio and dump the body?"

"No! Not yet anyway. We need to know how the shit actually works. I can access files and schematics on the tools the force use against you, but I don't know how these Cloakers' radios work. It's like their radios can operate in a frequency I can't reach in any spectrum!"

"Okay, so just take the Cloaker back to the safe house?"

"Precisely."

"Yeah Bain, but this one put up a fight, and I don't think it's going to want to give up info at all!"

"I don't know how you're going to do it, but you have to do it. Unless you can find undercover cops in an auditorium filled with investors easily."

"Eh...okay, Bain. What are we going to do that involves that many people?"

"Let's just say, we're going to steal a billionaire using his own money."

"No seriously. What are we going to do?"


	2. Chapter 2

The van went on an undisturbed, yet unnerved trip after the raid on the Magellan Facility. After similar heists drew to a close, the robbers would feel breathless relief that they successfully evaded capture by the police, but now they felt like they could be caught at any time. The presence of an unconscious Cloaker still alarmed the crew, even if they restrained the body with extra zip ties and well-placed loot bags. Despite all the empty streets and alleys the driver planned out to take, a simple knock on the back of the van could compromise the silence.

The crew always treated the Cloakers as dangerous animals, and carrying one home was like taking the head of snake that could historically bite after death. So to keep fear at bay, Houston, Hoxton, and Dallas eyed the Cloaker with their masks still on, still fearing that another brawl would ensue that needed facial protection. However, this fear was not shared by Wolf as it was contemplation that plagued him. Unlike his comrades, Wolf sat unmasked on his server with eyes looking at the broken van window.

The cloudy sky beyond seemed to offer some sort of inspiration to answer some previous questions he had before being hammered in the face. An advert plane was flying with an ad for some body-wash. According to Wolf, the pilot must be doing a specialized job like he was. Just fly a plane because no one else could just so the product can be seen. Between him and the pilot, Wolf felt like he should envy the guy. Without a doubt, the enterprise of the Payday gang might be just as challenging and rewarding as flying a plane (more likely much more), but something about the pilot told Wolf that he had at least one regret from being a heister. Or maybe it was just the freedom that the pilot was experiencing being high in the sky that he wanted. But then…

The van braked strongly enough that it shook Wolf out of his thoughts. The airplane was long gone and replaced with clear skies. The all too familiar smell of liquor and gun metal was also wafting in the air.

 _I'll think long about this later,_ he thought, _we must be at the Safehouse already_.

Sure enough, the van parked itself next to the gate just outside of home base. Twitch as expected excused himself from the van and walked to the gate a keychain of keys in his hands.

"Nice navigating by the way. You saved our asses this time."

"Umm, okay? I really don't know if you're being serious or just sarcastic after I fuck up an escape. To be honest, I think I did pretty bad and-"

"You got us home, and that's good. Now you go home."

"Sure Dal."

Twitch unlocked the gate lock and pulled the gate to the side as Dallas, now in the driver's seat, drove the van inside. The gate was then closed and locked discreetly by Twitch, before he walked briskly to another car in a nearby alley. He quickly unlocked the car, sat himself, and then punched the keys in. Most people shouldn't pay attention to a baby blue sedan, so it seemed fine that he could just slam the accelerator a little hard this time. But as soon as Twitch was sure he was far away, he flipped his Nokia and held down the 6.

"Heyyy, what's up?"

Twitch quickly picked up a book he kept under the seat and opened to a bookmark. There, he found a chewed pencil and a note scrawled with quotes. It was number 23 today.

"Nothing much, but you uh got a bogey at the last hole. Just so you know."

"Really. Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I don't mean to be uh, mean, but you gotta watch yourself. You keep making the wrong calls here."

"I know, I'm working on it. Listen, I'll make it fair between us and make it a birdie. Sound good?"

"…Hm, yeah, sounds good. I'll bring the drivers next time if that's okay with you."

"Yeah, do that. See you next match."

"See you too."

Twitch closed his phone and put the book in the driver's compartment. With a sigh heaved from his throat, he numbly drove the sedan back to its hiding spot. Twitch then clicked the trunk button on the dashboard and after getting out gave a lazy slam on the door. Twitch then looked up to the same spot he thought saw a bogey. Red was splattered across the wall, so that was where he needed to be. It was exhausting work, but it had to be done. Inside the trunk would be enough cleaning materials for today's dirty mess.

As soon as the gate closed, the van drifted into the garage. Rust set down the pudding on Houston's worktable as he approached the van and opened the back.

"Ah, welcome back cocksuckers. What did you bring in this-"

Inside the van were at least a dozen loot bags, but the loot pile had a familiar face hiding among the cash. Instantly, he drew a knife at the sight of the Cloaker.

"SHIT! You guys too fuckin' blind to see the Cloaker ready to jump your asses?!"

"No wait Tom, this spook's unconscious," Dallas stated.

"You sure that it's not sleeping then!"

"We could check it…"

"FUCK no! I don't wanna be near that blasted slippery cunt! I already got busted balls trying to put it down, so why don't you guys pick it up while I find the nearest mini-fridge."

"I'm pretty sure…that it's sleeping. A collision to human respiration should be able to cause shock or moments of fainting due to a sudden halt of oxygen."

"Okay Wolfie…I'm gonna take your word for it. But if that bastard wakes up and kicks me in the balls like Hoxton, I'm going to smear pudding all over the seats and make _you_ clean them before I get taken out."

"Ah come on, you can't hate on me for that! It was an honest mistake-"

"Fuck you Houston! You crossed a line by shining my seat with motor oil and I will not fuckin' stand for that shit! SO YEAH, you get to clean my chocolate mess and maybe more if this bastard gets to ruin my day even more!"

"OKAY, we get it! Let's just remove the bags and then the stupid Cloaker. Then we take a chair and strap him to the metal as tight as we can. Bonnie and Jacket need to come up and try to pull out any information we have out of the guy."

"Sounds like a plan. Now get out of the way, I need some damn ice for this."

After pushing loot bags off the Cloaker, Rust could see the wet hell it took just put the bastard out cold. There was water and blood everywhere in the van.

 _Houston already has to clean this shit off. Damn Cloaker…doesn't feel right,_ Rust thought, rare empathy taking hold of his mentality. Perhaps Houston had enough shit for today. It was a lot of blood and water already splashing out in the garage. 7 zip ties just looked overkill for one person, but the van was messed up thanks to a goddamn Cloaker after all.

"Hey Hox, how hard were you hit?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Yeah, believe me, you can ask him later once his manhood returns."

"Oh shut it."

Rust dragged a nearby cart and positioned it by the doors where the Cloaker was carefully pushed unto by Wolf and Houston. Step by step, they disembarked from the van holding on to the restraining zip ties. There was a sudden metal clang.

"Hey! Heyyy! We're moving a sleeping body that could wake up and break us!"

"Look, my balls are raw, and they need some ice fast. If I don't get them any sooner they're gonna fall off. Also, the fuck's not sleeping; they're knocked out. So I can be as loud as I want to be!"

Wolf, Rust, and Houston tried to put it of their minds as they imagined Hoxton hobble out of the van as if his lower regions were iron dumbbells hanging on wet toilet paper.

* * *

After a blistering half hour of moving and restraining the Cloaker in the special chair, Houston finally removed his mask from his face. Even if the Safehouse would be able to repel any police raids, that shouldn't mean the room should be located behind Jacket's room just in case the doors failed! Mist could form just from hot sweat inside the basement; it was an industrial freezer after all. After breaking and hiding out in what housed the said freezer for a stakeout, Hoxton was able to buy the keys and lore for $500. Apparently, the Safehouse was previously a meat store that made a killing in the 50s, but due to the owner's own neglect wasted away and was forgotten. Now the meat freezer served as a viable interrogation chamber when normal methods of information gathering failed.

Four factors in the design of the interrogation room were recognized by Bonnie to aid her in extracting info from her prisoners. The meat locker door was so heavily reinforced that one imagines an insane asylum room first seeing it. Cold, ceramic steel and a white tiled floor always seemed to create a feeling of being a prisoner, no matter the character one had in the room.

The inside shoddy lighting provided by two outdoor lanterns could disorient and sway any will. Lastly, the chair; a creation of Wolf previously used for imprisonment or experimentation (which didn't fly after a smell started wafting around), but currently reused as a 'discomfort chair' that heavily restrained legs and arms of a person against a layer of spiky Velcro scratching their skin. The cold temperature was just an afterthought and was not really needed, but it still prevented overheating as punishment was administered.

With this setup, Bonnie was able to get about anything from information brokers, mercenaries, and other robbers. She cracked her fingers as she observed the newest wealth of knowledge, the Cloaker.

Houston put his mask back on and stood behind the table of power tools that could be used to bludgeon or pierce the Cloaker. Bonnie cracked her fingers and Jacket stood behind as backup if Bonnie herself didn't get through. However, Bonnie was only cracking fingers to pass the time and come up with an approach. Was it going to be like that Yang guy again or that religious nut a year ago? For so long, Cloakers only appeared as bat-shit insane agents of justice that kicked your ass if you weren't careful, but even though one was currently rendered helpless, Bonnie had no sure-fire way to make one say something else other than 'The safe word is police brutality'. Well, you could stab, scratch, club, punch, electrocute, shoot, burn, explode, or run over anybody to make them talk, but they wouldn't get any useful info from people who keeled over from a simple minute-long punching session.

Damn, it was usually true that the stronger the interrogated were, the juicier and greater their secrets were. Knowing this, there apparently were secrets that could never be revealed. The Yakuza man and terrorist were able to give details on major weapon caches and blood funds somewhere in Foggy Bottom, but they offed themselves before revealing details about their leaders. All across their heists, the Cloakers were seen to be the most impassioned of law enforcers to be able to ruthlessly incapacitate Bonnie and others, so the oath they would possibly take would be as serious as death.

Being the interrogator and torturer was like being the dealer in a game. They could decide who wins or loses, but it meant you could make dramatic mistakes and have to restart all over again with new or old players. However, as likely as it was, Bonnie damned to hell expected the Cloaker not to commit suicide through some supernatural shit. As an experienced gambler, she knew when she would win big taking this one on like the previous players, so she would have to take it slow to keep the spook alive. If her soft coaxing was still going to be rough, she'd owe her peace of mind to Wolf who took most of the Cloaker's equipment. It would sound superstitious, but Bonnie firmly believed third time was the charm on this one and could not be lost.

Bonnie cracked her last knuckle and eyed the Cloaker. Wolf was able to remove the tactical harness around the Cloaker's torso, gloves around the stiff fingers, and other limb protection that hid calloused digits. The outfit under was some sort of wetsuit with built-in chest armor that Wolf himself admitted was too tight to cut without 'waking the monster'. The headpiece also left on was fabricated as the combination of a gasmask, night-vision googles, and the remarkably small yet valuable radio communication headset.

Altogether, this resembled a slender but lean man who probably spent too much time in an arms dealer's weapon closet. Bonnie pulled back her fist and readied for a good punch. It was time for a good trick. She fired off her fist and let it glide towards the Cloaker's face. As quickly as her fist stopped in front of the Cloaker's face, a collection of ragged breaths a running smoker would take filled the air.

"Heh. Works everytime on people like you."

The Cloaker tried to take in his new surroundings, but was visibly having what was the equivalent of a panic attack behind a mask. Bonnie sighed inwardly, feeling a little sorry for the bastard. She grabbed hold of the goggles and tilted them up. A set of dull green eyes stared back at her with fear and determination to escape from restraints. The Velcro was doing its job.

"Shhh. It's okay pal, it's okay. It's okay. Hey, listen. You're thinking you're not in a safer place than you think you know, but I know it is. It's been a long day, but take a few good breathers, okay little man?"

The Cloaker was still hyperventilating in the chilling atmosphere. From the Cloaker's dazed eyes, they could see only silhouettes of a man with a chicken head, another standing behind a spiky table, and an eerily motionless blue face. In cold misty air, dangerous auras taking shape around these men and the nearby creature were what the Cloaker could feel most intimately. Most frightening of all was the pale blue gorilla-like face with a red mouth that could eat men whole, daring to soothe a pained soul.

"Huh, looks like you aren't calming down there, are ya? I know, that, you're not going to be comfortable in this position, but have to take precaution right? But seriously, calm the fuck down, or I'll have to do it myself. Maybe, you need more air than that mask giving you some. You wanna remove it? "

The Cloaker still didn't calm down. Bonnie sighed once more, and turned to Jacket in the dark, who was already swinging his bat.

"Woah! No. Put that down."

The Cloaker's breaths seemed to slow down after that command. Slowly, the man with a chicken head lowered their bat to the ground, before dropping it with a wooden echoed thud. Thankfully, the blue face stepped back off into the dim light and stood still as a silhouette. An eerie period of peaceful stillness passed between the Cloaker and the mysterious men. Suddenly, the man with a chicken head grew big and close really fast. The moment of peace was then interrupted by the sudden metallic smash on the mask of the Cloaker.

The goggles and mask clattered like China dishes on the floor. Jacket had reached for the metal bat and forcefully removed the Cloaker's mask with a carefully aimed swing. Bonnie, Jacket, and Houston shared a quiet moment of astonishment once the goggles stopped shorting out. In the light of the lanterns, they could see the Cloaker's true face.

"Well, miss, whadya ya think you're doing in the police force?"


	3. Chapter 3

The Cloaker's face was surprisingly pretty for a questionably malevolent law enforcer. Assumingly, it was a she, or at least by looking at the eyelashes and carefully applied mascara it was a she. Other than that simple makeup, there were a lot of other feminine features expected but were not present in the Cloaker. She did not have lips ready to be kissed. She did not have dazzling eyes to make all the boys fall lovingly in her gaze. She did not even have clear, petite skin and instead had freckles, blemishes and some pimples that probably made a terrible driver's license photo. Her most defining feature was a glint in her eyes that suggested a perseverant soul inside that could last to masochistic limits; was this what the heisters saw as self-righteous heroism or mindless courage? They didn't know.

"Well, miss, whadya ya think you're doing in the police force?"

The she-Cloaker didn't respond, only turning to spit dirty blood on the floor. It was a wonder that no teeth were on the floor. Bonnie smiled her most menacing grin behind her mask when the she-Cloaker stared back. Perhaps Jacket could soften her up first.

"So. You like to be quiet. You're also a little easy to shake, but a still tough one. Usually, most men dislocate their necks with a good punch to the jaws, but it looks like you got muscle."

Jacket brought himself back into view of the prisoner, whose eyes darted to him in pure abhorrence. His stature towered over her, taunting her, dehumanizing her to a lower level. The Cloaker steeled herself. She had seen this person in the dossier before.

" _Officers_ , w _hen you see this person, do not be intimidated or coerced to follow their orders. He is a master of human manipulation, so far having caused a third of our forces to go AWOL, missing, or against the oaths they originally swore on. We can assume he can convince anyone he chooses to participate in his crimes. Whatever you do, detain him on sight, or wait for backup."_

Jacket brought his mask close to the Cloaker, where everything else faded away. It was just her and him; the ultimate mind game. For an observer, it would just seem that Jacket and the Cloaker were having a contest of who would flinch first, but it was really a game of will and wits. He was trying to see just how scared she could possibly be. Apparently, nothing could faze her as a full minute dragged on. Jacket let his feathery exterior continue to inspire fear in the Cloaker as he readied his tape recorder.

"What is your name?"

Nothing happened for another minute. The Cloaker already heard what Jacket's voice was like from intelligence, so she wasn't going to react to the dysfunctional combination of a calm voice and a murderous psychopath. Not meaning of course that she could hold back her fear from a monster staring at her for so harrowingly long.

"What is your name?"

Another aching minute of nothing. Jacket quickly moved out of the way, allowing Bonnie to land a heavy hit on the Cloaker's forehead. Knowing the history of the heisters, the heavy hit had more than just force behind it. When Bonnie used to stage some unofficially recognized boxing matches for fun at Glasgow, she was booed off after her punches were deemed to be too strong for her size. The truth was not that she was that strong and unrelenting, but that her lucky hits coming here and there were what made her indomitable. This punch was one of those lucky punches, striking inhumanly with as much damage as a concussion grenade launched by a bionic arm.

 _Damn it, I went too far already with just a punch,_ Bonnie thought, _Maybe the power tools would be too much for her._

The Cloaker was smashed in her restraints, the 'discomfort chair' leaning back a long 30 degrees before falling forward. After cleaning her fist, Bonnie could see her eyes were literally rolling around after the discombobulation. Her nose was starting to drip blood all over the black armor. Her left cheek looked fucked up after the black bruises started to form.

After her vision regained, the chicken head reappeared. This time, there was a growing feeling of déjà vu. The men in the dark, the temperature, the lights, and the horrible abhorring feeling were still the same. However, her face didn't feel misshapen or ached. This was her first time being tortured, so was…this…actually expected in her training?

"What is your name?"

* * *

Time passed before there was a small knock at the armored door, and Houston looked through the glass to see Dallas without his mask on. Dallas, at this time here instead of ironing his used suit, was waiting at the door with a laptop. It was definitely out of the ordinary. Houston pointed to his mask, to which Dallas mouthed:

" _Thanks. Bain is here. He says that he needs to see this."_

Gesturing to the flimsy laptop was all that he needed to see. The one used particularly for visiting CrimeNet and exclusively allowing Bain to see eye-to-eye with the heisters. You would have the feeling that you can't and won't be able to see him like any normal boss, but it seemed easier to work with. Hell, working with Bain was easier than with his boss at the entertainment-restaurant gig (The kids that came were just spoiling themselves with terrible pizza and stupid arcade games that broke faster than Bonnie and a computer).

Houston looked behind him and saw the she-Cloaker's damned face. Shit, she looked like shit after being hit by Bonnie's fists for something like half an hour. He grimaced at the sound of dripping blood as he carefully unlatched the door's locks and slid the door open. Houston could still hear the punches from behind him as he closed the door.

"Well brother, how's it going?"

"It's not looking good. We have to hold back because maybe she won't be able to speak after being hit so much. If she does speak. Jacket says he won't have any trouble talking to her, but still no info about the radio."

"Well, what did you expect out of a guy like th-wai…what? You said, 'her'? "

Dallas's head recoiled from Houston's statement in bewilderment. This was new.

"Yeah…It's a girl."

"Um…Alright. I have to see this for myself."

"Cool. I'll be fixing up the van after what that bitch did to it. Wait, Bain, do we have other computers in the safehouse?"

"Right…Houston, we don't."

"*sigh* Looks like I can't make any extra part requests for the van. I'll be cleaning up the shop floor so we're ready for the next heist. When you guys are done, I need the laptop back, okay?"

"Got it."

With that, Houston walked across the cement and past the opening behind the movable plaster wall. Carefully, he stepped over the mess of cassette tapes in Jacket's room. There in the next space, he saw Dragan doing pushups before stopping to look up at him, Bodhi and Sokol soon coming out of their off-heist hobbies. They also acted apprehensive, as if expecting the wrath of Murphy's law.

"So…What was Cloaker like? Still…inhuman and-"

"Yeah. She hasn't said anything yet."

"Oh…I see. The force back home did reach out to women to cover more ground in the city. Not that it helped."

"Why Dragan? Girls didn't approach you with your ugly face?"

"No, ti glupi. They were too ugly for me."

"Ah! That's why you like them, older, right?"

"No Bohdi, Dragan should like them short and fiery. Like Sydney, but shorter."

"Sokol, that's exactly how you like them. Not for me bro. I'm looking for the best experience in life. Like the Ozaki 8 I'm working on."

"To be clear, my interest in women is little. I have contract to fulfill, and that is all I want to fulfil."

Right, Dragan was that type of person. But if his 'contract' was fulfilled, what would he do next? Still, as fun as it was to finally talk about women instead of the prisoner, he was getting distracted. Houston had to tell the others.

"One thing to know. The woman in there, she is a slave desk worker, or a monster."

"Hmph, right. Maybe she's one of those."

"Why not? We kill them all the time, and they act dead even before dead."

* * *

It wasn't getting anywhere. It was already getting close to midnight, or at least that was what it felt like for her after so many punches. All her training in the compound had led to this: her lights getting punched out, jabbed in the gut with a blunt hammer, and then revived with adrenaline for more pain. The darkness and men in suits seemed to surround her view from all sides, but she would not surrender to their wishes. She knew what their plans were. They wanted to make her servient and compliant. They wanted her to feel weak and helpless, and then appear like friends you could console yourself with after some 'heart-felt' chats. Basic Stockholm syndrome. The head pummeling stopped with a single bat to the gut.

"What is your name?"

Even though she had forgot the last thing the man in the chicken suit had asked her, she was roughly able to hear their codenames. Why were they talking louder as the torture passed by? Still, the chicken head had some name like 'Locket', the blue face was 'Johnny', and the man behind the table was called 'Fella'.

The chicken head looked exactly like a dossier she could faintly recall, but she couldn't remember dossiers for 'Johnny' and 'Fella', so these other interrogators were probably new in the gang. Speaking of which, 'Johnny' and 'Fella' were able to be seen talking in the mist despite her blurred vision.

What were they saying? Were they…holding back? What for? To discuss more on how to subdue her? Better yet, how they would…well, that was very possible. Surely, it wouldn't be that bad.

Jacket looked to Bonnie and Dallas. She apparently didn't simply submit to prolonged physical domination, not that it was unexpected with like-minded individuals like her.

"Am I allowed to talk privately with her?"

"Sure. Just don't let her kill herself."

"Yeah. I don't want another mess in here to clean up after. Not after what I had to see in here just now."

"Yes. I…follow."

Jacket approached from the mist as quietly as possible towards the Cloaker. It was now 15 past 12 o'clock. After an hour and a half of coercion, the Cloaker was looking very weary in her now tattered clothing. Not much was torn to reveal what was underneath for the depraved, but enough to be considered to be beyond repair. Her face was surprisingly covered with brown scabs and yellow pus-pockets, seemingly going through a strange bodily function. Usually, people in the chair would be red and black from their bodies struggling to heal open wounds and bruises on their face. You could make multiple portraits to sell on certain markets with just the fascinating expressions you could find in the chamber.

However, the unwavering woman in stealth gear just seemed stoic and motionless; her human responses bordering on dead if it were not the darting eyes. Possibly, the training she received was considerably more punishing than this, a whole other, disturbing, world beyond their hands. A world that was beyond expression and demonstration she could show that it was removed in favor of duty and sacrifice.

Truly, this operative was withholding critical knowledge for her superiors. Her fellow officers would squeal lesser valuable information with even lesser provocation. However, with this highly inconvenient perseverance and endurance, the Cloaker was starting to look like a very stubborn oyster. An oyster that would have to be tossed away, losing the pearl inside. Disappointingly, he couldn't afford to be toss away the Cloaker like the oyster.

Her apparent loyalty to the state meant she had a secret so heavily guarded that she even might mistake it as one of her own, like some secrets shared and entitled to all human beings. An error of personal judgement more likely, being one of many enforcers similarly tasked with demanding obligations. No, she could not be reasoned that her likeness could help everyone more than themselves; at this point, she could be disposed of like the rest.

If she was kept alive within the safehouse, her presence would make everyone in the safehouse too uneasy or disturbed to do their jobs. An extreme danger to all species is a predator in their own resting place, the Cloaker being one to the heisters. Key members of the gang like Dallas would not be able to retain their effective functions due to a constant traumatic presence with the Cloaker. Because the gang depended on such key heisters to direct and regulate their modus operandi, heist success and morale would decrease. The negative performance is already compounded with all heisters fearing the Cloaker (except for Jacket himself), and the integrity of the crew would collapse on itself.

Because humans are to blame others for their faults (except for a certain few, but their voices wouldn't matter), the heisters would not be able to support each other faithfully with much failure and unease. This would create a positive feedback loop with performance decreasing and the heisters blaming each other. Heisters would hold more and more easily dismissible grudges over each other's failures until teamwork was compromised.

When plots and heists are entered with inadequate cooperation, the crew is more susceptible to capture or arrest by more visible weaknesses. Bain's overseeing position wouldn't be able to mitigate any unacceptable action or treatment, despite his vast connections. If this feedback loop were to start, it would mean the end of the Payday Gang and Jacket's original goal.

She would have to be disposed of in a manner that left her harmless to the heisters and unsalvageable for outside threats. She could be blackmailed or bargained with through the hacking prowess of Bain, but would undoubtedly still reveal their operations. She could be forcefully driven insane, but even non-coherent utterings would still tell truth through police analysis. This was going to be last brush of death she would ever experience.

She would have to be silenced; otherwise the security of their endeavors would be compromised. She was indeed a troublesome person to be behind the Cloaker mask. Unfortunately, her tenacity would be her downfall if the case he would soon present to her was not convincing. A case compiled with Hoxton to find the Rat, which revealed more than just rats. There were shrews, gophers, and snakes in the police, and her a tin soldier endlessly wound up to subdue the unlawful.

He was right in her face for the 135th time, her scabs a recurring, vile smell. He wasn't going to ask for her identification anymore. Bain said after all that there was another heist prepared in case the interrogation failed. He was going to _exonerate_ her and everyone from their future hassles.

She was readying herself for another question and 'unexpected' barrage. She steeled her eyes for another glare. The chicken head took this as a sign to continue. He stepped before the she-Cloaker, his mask placid and bloody. He kneeled and wrenched out a bloodied cassette to the wet floor, before inserting an unusually clean white cassette into his tape player. He aimed it at her, close and uncomfortable. He pressed the play button.

"Please listen to the following…You are a law enforcer. As a law enforcer, you must uphold the Constitution, community, and the agency you serve. You must also be an upstanding citizen of the United States and act for the interest of public health, which includes peace keeping and conviction of all civilians considered guilty, hereby identified as criminals.

You have not been keeping the peace.

You have been engaged and informed in legal martial justice against these criminals. The criminals have breached several forms of state and national law, which include manslaughter, smuggling, illegal weapon sale, and rampant extortion. Despite initial and continuing efforts, you have not apprehended the criminals. Massive amounts of law enforcers have been deployed to stop these criminals, but have been killed or MIA in all their attempts. There have even been reports of missing civilians and undocumented warrants that circumvent US law."

The chicken head, still staring at her, silently paused the tape and grasped another tape recorder and unnervingly shoved the device in her numb face. She could barely hear a click before she heard another panicked voice in the room. It blared in her ears.

" _We are now recording."_

" _Good. *bell chime and footsteps* Hello? Is Jorge Calavera here?"_

" _Yes-Ah! NOT YOU COPS AGAIN! NO! I TELL YOU, I-"_

" _We don't mean any trouble. This is only a follow-up interview for documentation purposes only."_

" _Get the fuck away from me! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MEEE!"_

" _Please calm down sir, no harm will come to you as long as you cooperate. Otherwise, we will resort to extreme measures."_

" _LOOK, I ALREADY GAVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT TO KNOW! Now just let me go home already!"_

" _Uh, right sir. We still haven't found the illegally transported contraband reported by Federal in all the possible places they could be found according to your info, so we have to conduct a follow-up interview in the crime scene in case you forgot something to say. Maybe there are…other places you haven't told us about?"_

" _Wait! I jus-just started working here as an intern yesterday to manage this shop on Tuesdays and Fridays! I didn't expect a drug bust to happen here and shoot up the place!"_

" _Yes, I see. Is your employer available at this time?"_

" _No. He's working from Seattle. This is just a…uh, a 'scouting location'? Yu-You know, for seeing if customers like the coffee?"_

" _Sir, as far as we know, your shop…er…'scouting location' has been the front for multiple drug runs, so we highly suspect this area to have extensive criminal …collusion."_

" _Suspected for criminal what!? I never had-wait, it's about that masked clown gang? How can this shop be connected to those assholes!"_

" _I'm sorry sir, but my friend says the Payday gang's escape vehicle has been seen often speeding on the street next to your shop, while pursuing officers were stopped by nearby cars not known to move, so we had to investigate if you or others are responsible for making them move. I'm sorry that we have to ask you again, but we gotta find all the witnesses and the like to find more info. So sir, you're going to have to talk with us a little more until we're sure we learned everything there is to know."_

"… _What…I mean-I already got five visits from people like you, and you still want more? Fucking…Why the fuck haven't you guys realized that I got nothing to do with the Payday clowns?! I'm only here for the free coffee and donuts and get paid 47 bucks every shift…I mean, isn't there not much here to show that I work with those guys? Yeah, they make lots of money that I'd like to have, but they're just so violent you know? I don't think I could live in this part of Washington with one of those freaky girl robbers prowling around, I mean that's why I live in the Flats…I already told this shit to the other cops. And they just keep getting, hostile. Just asking more and more questions, like they can't believe my shit…"_

" _Well…fuck. I…uh, didn't think it would be…this bad for you. *sigh* Listen. We're only going to ask-"_

" _Wilkins, I don't think this is going anywhere."_

" _Wait-what?"_

" _Oh…sorry sir, but I may need to…speak with my partner. *rustling* Uh, what…do you mean?"_

" _This witness is stubbornly offering no leads to the case, so I think we have to take him for more questioning."_

" _What the-What?! Are you crazy? We don't have to! We have to find intent to say we can! We still have que-"_

" _Yes we do. It's this interview."_

" _You mean-oh. Oh. Oh no. But that means-We can't do that! The higher ups have to approve this as prelim before we can take them in! This is like Noire levels of-"_

" _I know, but investigation means getting all the needed information that can be there. We can use this interview to allow my superiors need-to-know info for the possible chance that they can connect one detail to another, and finally capture them. They already found this guy to be innocent, but people are getting hanged for not getting anything. They already fired Hoskins for incompetence, even though I know he was just late for last week's conference. Otherwise, this means I can't let him go."_

 _*'INCOMING CALL'*_

" _I have to take this. *rustle* Yes? …Yes…We need to bring him in?...Yes sir."_

 _*'CALL ENDED'*_

" _Can I please go home now?"_

" _I'm sorry to say this, but no. Wilkins, take him out for further interrogation."_

" _But…*sigh*…Yes ma'am._ _*walking* Sorry man. The brass needs you for today."_

" _*walking* Hey. HEY. *thud* HEY! HEYHEYHEY! I TALKED TO YOU GUYS FIVE TIMES ALREADY! ISN'T WHAT I TOLD YOU ENOUGH!?"_

" _Hey wait! I'm not going to put the cuffs on, we're just needing-"_

" _COME ON MAN! YOU KNOW I SHOWED YOU EVERYTHING IN HERE! *rustling* YOU CAN'T DO THIS! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!"_

 _*RING* *RING* *RING*_

" _Who's on the phone?"_

" _IT'S my-"_

 _*BEEP*_

" _Jorge? I need you at home again. We need to talk about-"_

" _Ma'am? Who am I speaking to?"_

"… _Sorry?"_

" _JEN!? NOOOO! NO! OH GOD- JEN? It's me! The police are taking me to jail! I don't care if this is my one phone call, but you must know that I love you and that I have nothing to do with what they're taking me in for!"_

" _Wait…W-what's going on there?"_

 _*a clatter, followed by a crunching sound*_

"… _YOU ASSHOLE! That was a birthday-*door opening followed by stomping*…gift."_

" _Take him away."_

" _Right away ma'am."_

" _What! HEY! Wait! G-Get away from me! *thud* "_

" _Shit! That's gonna-"_

" _*shattering* Get away from me!"_

" _Suspect has a weapon!"_

" _GET AWAY FROM ME! I DON'T DESERVE THIS BULLSHIT!"_

" _Get him before he uses it!"_

 _*smashing, punching, tearing. Inaudible cursing*_

" _Cut this part of the interview."_

*crackle*

The recording ended with static, but it still stuck. The chicken drew back the tape recorder and unpaused the original track.

"Even though it has been suspected that the criminals could be held responsible for missing civilians, the classified interview has shown questionable behavior of law enforcement. The interviewers, Investigator Olivera and Lieutenant Wilkins, were tasked with finding and collecting info on the drug runs happening around a store in Foggy Bottom. They held Jorge Calavera for questioning for 3 days, later connecting him to other crimes in the area and appealed him for court examination after one day had passed since his capture.

Other agents like Olivera conducted similar investigations with similar outcomes, most of them surrounding civilians found close to crime-scenes. Most of the cases did not shed any light about the criminals and only seemed to inconvenience many Washington citizens, degrading the public opinion of the Washington D.C. Police Department. Scrutiny on case approvals involving the criminals can only be assumed to be lacking.

Despite the losses, no other action has been taken to stop these criminals, the only response being...an indefinite amount of law enforcers sent to their graves. There have been no attempts in the Washington Law Enforcement Agency to consider other views to explain or observe the motivations behind the crimes. An invasive assessment has shown deeply analytic insight into the criminals, but no perspective has shown any effectiveness in fighting them.

Provided, that there were a few instances that criminals were subdued and incarcerated, the money needed to imprison all of them would have statistically brought the Agency towards bankruptcy and state budget towards shutdown. The invasive assessment itself resulted in short-lived but substantial cut funding for the police force, few or little of the intelligence gathered being utilized for greater benefit."

The chicken head took a step back before turning around and fading into the mist with the other mysterious faces. Somehow, there was a tape for all of that. The Cloaker slowly eased herself lower into the 'chair' in defiance, embracing the spiky Velcro if it were reasonable self-punishment to atone for this apparently real shortcoming. She couldn't think much more about her position in all of this after the chicken-head appeared with a knife. She could tell there was a knife by how silently the chicken head stalked towards her, as if ready to cut something off her face. She eyed the approaching silhouette, expecting the worst to come. This was expected after all.

Then there it was, an arm's reach away from the Cloaker, the carbon knife brandished for a close encounter. More likely, the chicken head was going to use the knife to 'expertly convince' her to do something that maybe she couldn't refuse. Was one of her ears going to be chopped off? A nose split open? It would be far worse after the injuries she already received.

The mascot's eyes darted and stared at her, like a snake expecting some sort of reaction out of its prey. The she-Cloaker's eyes were glimmering with disturbance in the fog light, but her arched eyebrows and stiff body suggested she wasn't breaking. Even though she was looking up at the monster, it was like she was standing as high as him. Standing up to the cold, biased statement of a psychopath. Standing up for the police force and its beliefs. Standing up for the law for it was her duty.

The chicken head holstered the knife in his pocket like a toy and pulled out a black cassette tape. While the tapes were being switched, the she-Cloaker thought back to her father's tutelage and teachings. It was possible that they could help her, but now she had the weakening feeling that it wasn't going to matter. Hell especially was where she was going after hearing what the chicken head said. She wanted it that way.

Then there was a click and the chicken head was gone. She looked around, but her bruised neck was too limiting. She could see a laptop with a black screen that sat in a chair with a haunting plastic smile glistening dimly. The infamous Dallas. A hand grabbed the weakened She-Cloaker by the head with another holding a blade's edge at her jugular. She manically shook with fading strength against the hand's grip and blade like a trapped rat. The hand holding her head back released and she felt a numb yet noticeable pain in her jugular. Behind her, a button clicked.

"In the mission of capturing or securing the criminals, you have failed by being captured by the criminals themselves. Despite this failure, you still show signs of upholding the steadfast belief of preserving peace by the police force. This can only be concluded after ignoring an external perspective explaining how the Washington D.C. Police Department is responding poorly to broken law and showing no discourse. You have shown loyalty to the police force, showing acceptance of death for its endeavors. Therefore, it is assumed you have served your purpose in law enforcement by not compromising an integral part of its operations. Because you served under this will, you will see to this will's end through death."

"WAIT!"

She only saw a blue blur when she was knocked down.

There was a scuffle in the room. Someone had pulled a fast one on the plug of the lanterns.

"Oh shit! The lights-"

Dallas quickly switched on the meat locker's lights, illuminating a struggle between Bonnie and Jacket. Somehow, they clashed against each other in the dark to wrestle over Jacket's knife. Bonnie without her mask was holding back Jacket with her right arm while clutching Jacket's left arm with the knife. Jacket made strong but halting movements towards the 'discomfort chair' all while holding one of Bonnie's legs and his tape recorder repeating 'Stop' over and over.

"Damn it Jacket! I know we fucking got something out of her! I know we do!"

"Stop. Stop. Stop."

"NO! This is my third and only time I get a juicy hostage! Don't fucking waste her damn it! You-!"

"Stop. Stop. Stop."

Dallas and Bain were at an impasse as they watched two of the most perilous members of the Payday Gang wrestling each other over a knife over a Cloaker. It was bizarre seeing Bonnie as the voice of reason and Jacket as a mindlessly driven drone, but the sight itself seemed to suggest an even more absurd perspective. Sure, the wrestling reminded Dallas and Bain of primal thrashing between two animals, but that was what it was.

It was nothing out of the methodical or underhanded ways the gang operated. It was just…messy. Messy, chaotic, saddening fighting. To think that just like the firefights that they had with the cops, it might have looked like this. They shook their heads in dismay, knowing the gang in-fighting itself was expected with matters like these.

As the wrestling between Bonnie and Jacket continued, Dallas looked to the restrained Cloaker knocked down. In the corner of the freezer, an armor chest piece was cut off, a familiar sight in the urban brawls usually dealt with. It was designed so statically to uniform all Cloakers that they would all look practically the same. Wasn't there always a way though to know which uniform belonged to whom? It was crazy. He sidestepped around Bonnie and Jacket to get to the Cloaker.

"Get the fuck-Dallas! Help me restrain this mother-"

"Assistance is required. Dallas. It is impera-"

Dallas already gripped the edge of the torn-off armor piece. Flopping like a stiff set of chainmail, he observed a highlighted name in the underside of the armor.

… _Ara? This bitch's name is ara? The fuck?_ , Dallas thought confusing himself in the dim light. The silver text was written in cursive, like it was the only personal touch in the thing, even though it was a name. Because highlighter was used on the glossy parts of the armor, some of the letters were easily smudged off. Was this first letter a k or a c? He was used to the cursive he and his brother had, but apparently this cursive was as culturally unrecognizable as Sanskrit. What idiot would even think to write this with highlighter and not expect it to be smudged by something? Either way, it looked like her name was Cara or she was Indian maybe.

Dallas looked to the flipped seat on the floor. On the back, he could see the workshop hell of a chair holding down the lethal hostage. Due to the position of heavy metal used to make it, it was pretty simple to flip the She-cloaker upwards. Then he saw what the armor was hiding.

"Jesus."

The She-cloaker's bosom just appeared…bizarre, as if it didn't belong there. The armor was tailored nicely for a female soldier, but it was clearly made as a bra to protect and cover the upper parts of a woman. Was there even some bind or regular bra that was there?

"Right...Bonnie! Jacket! Stop fighting and put down the knife so you can help me read this!"

"No. The law enforcer must be disposed of. If our operations are to remain secure, we must remove the…source of fragmentation."

"What…Shut the fuck up Jacket! We need her alive to tell the codes or some shit! I just want something out of her right now!"

Bain finished his shot behind the computer. He had to stop this fast.

"Jacket. I have taken enough measures and risks to keep the Cloaker here so we can thoroughly get info out of her. This is more secure than going to the FBI office that got new security installations."

Jacket squirmed out of Bonnie's hands before he nonchalantly kicked her back, wrenching the knife from Bonnie's grasp and standing up. He ran a thumb against the blade's sharp edge as he cocked his head towards the laptop's screen. Bonnie tried to get up, but was quickly immobilized with a shoe on her chest. Despite her brawler physique, it appeared she was out of breath.

"-huff…Get the fuck off me you mute-!"

"The Cloaker will not respond or...exchange with me or...Bonnie. We cannot expect...any other information out of her."

This was not the first time he did this. Bain briefly considered ringing a silent alarm to the rest of the crew.

"Jacket, just put the knife down. If we can't get any info out of her, then we can at least get some biometric data out of her. And no, we can't peel her skin. The scanners need a live person to be read."

Jacket glanced at Dallas inspecting the chest piece, before at Bonnie struggling under him. He faced the laptop, finally turning to look at the upturned 'discomfort chair'. Still set on gutting the Cloaker.

"Her name's Cara? Or Aran? Bain? Can you find a person named Arah in the police payroll?"

Bain sat up. He had found that name somewhere. Jacket himself seemed to know the importance of that name as he turned to Dallas.

"UH-wait…give me a sec…The latest dossier shows…no one named that. Um-okay…Where did you find that name?"

"I found it on this armor that was cut off. It's fucking shitty cursive."

Jacket carefully removed his foot from Bonnie's chest and walked over to Dallas to stare at the writing. Bonnie took a deep wheezing breath. Her lungs were that constricted under his Jordans.

"OH-huff-shit-huff-…*cough*…fucking…mute fuck."

Jacket studied the letters as if he was a deadbeat professor. Hunched over and arms behind, he examined the letters closely as his mask eye holes could provide. Despite the new promising priority on this cursive, Bain was sorely disappointed that after a long time of staring, Jacket or Dallas did not say anything. It was best to intervene before it became a minute of staring.

"Bring it to the camera. I can probably read it."

"Sure, like it's going to help."

Dallas and Jacket carefully positioned the highlighter and laptop camera until they were in view of each other. As soon as he could see the silver highlighter without difficulty, Bain quickly scanned over the collected signatures in his database and what he was seeing.

"Given that this is a woman's signature, I could find a match in an hour or less, since there's not many in the force."

The Cloaker Division compared to the other special officer divisions was the most secretive over recruitment. It was even practical to not list all of the identification for any Special Forces operative so that it could be an annuity write off. There were cases of these guys even swearing an oath to discard their names and be reborn as the agents of justice they righteously aim to be. It was interesting, but rather complicated for HR and CIU to manage. Plus, the concept of the Cloaker was started just a few years ago from a very obscure individual. A rightfully obscure one at that. Still, there had to be something about this person.

Maybe this wouldn't work out. The force was just too paranoid and tightly run this time to let the names of their shadow officers be found. It was easy to find the other special officer dossiers since their profession required not as much discretion for accountability, but you couldn't argue the backgrounds of these Cloakers when their presence effectively added a 15% chance of apprehending a criminal for an operation.

Bain reached for the shot glass and was in the process of finishing it before he saw the white highlighter through his glass. At first, the alcohol soothed Bain's throat, but then out of his control, he stopped drinking. He starred at the signature, burning it into his eyes. He set down the half-empty shot, and sat in the dark room looking at the bright monitor. Bain's cold hard hands gripped each other. He clearly wasted a terabyte of processing to search/find signatures, but that was besides a bigger issue. He really wanted to this never happen, but...

"…Goddamnit…"

Bain's really wanted to scream how he didn't sign up for this. He could use his hands to turn off the monitor, crash Crime Net, burn the gasoline behind him, and leave everything to settle down as ashes. He could easily do it in a heartbeat. He could screw everyone over and just leave the scene. He already did that before, so why not again? It was…tempting.

It was hard enough to convince civilians to work for you. Money, hard-to-purchase goods, influence, or people usually did the trick. Sometimes complicated favors that involved very high pillars of society. As for the lawful, it had to be something out of their own will. They had to be convinced not for something they lacked, but something they would choose to do. They already had a good life or good notion to act as a 'peacekeeper', which was enforced by a moral regimen of state law and common order.

You had to force them to adopt a new perspective that suited yours and their own, either by dominating them or putting them in an ultimatum. Then you could control them because they saw things the same way you saw them. However, people could hold values so high that they couldn't be held down. These special officers were a special case. The Payday Gang had never attempted to convince these types of people because they and their will were too strong of their own accord to be told to think and act differently.

For as numerous as they were, they all had their own ways of understanding the law and why it had to be protected, which makes it hard for them to be used against their better judgement. It would have to take a unique type of persuasion and understanding to convince her to work with them. As a former officer, Bain knew that working under an archive position in the force wasn't going to do the same for her.

Bain was at a mental impasse. Goddamn him! Why did he allow them to torture her! But she had the knowledge! Perhaps he could rethink...with the heisters. Bain eased himself after the mental stiffening. _Maybe they could get through to her. Maybe they could convince her to show how the radio works. And then they could modify it to triangulate…no. No._

It already took a lot of effort to just find her name. A digital clock glowed the time of 1:09. For now, they had to make her sleep for tomorrow. And with Hoxton injured, perhaps she could come along for another trip to the ward.

"Guys…let's try to do this tomorrow. Finding her is going to take a while. For now, just make her comfortable."

The interrogators unintentionally flinched at the request. It wasn't the first time that Bain said those exact words, but they usually meant in context that someone was going to hurt. They already made her 'comfortable', so what else was there to do?

"Uhh…Bain? What do you mean?"

"Oh-I mean just leave her…no, uh…make her-AH! Just fix her up."

"Wait. You mean leave her alone? Sure..."

"Alright…I guess I'll go with that. I'll see you guys in the morning."

"I'll get a bottle of whiskey."

"Hey. We can't forget about her. We gotta get her to rest or something."

Jacket turned to the battered officer in the chair before switching a cassette.

"A-blunt…tool applied with force…to the base of the head-the Medulla Oblongata…can incapacitate an opponent."

"-No. Jacket, she doesn't need to be harmed anymore. Just…give her something to drink."

Dallas dropped the armor on the floor. Bain was a former police officer, but his tone appeared to be a little more considerate than what he let on. However, he did allow Dragan be a part of the gang. Still, it irked him that he was telling them to do this. The only other cops he would talk with the same amount of respect here would be the field commanders on heists or occasional pagers. Oh well, it wasn't in the best interest to kill another person for today. Now, how were you supposed to make a person sleep without hurting them? Dallas knew it at the top of his head.

"Ah….Ah! Alcohol! Bonnie, give her some of your-"

"No! I'm okay with giving stuff to her, but not my drinks!"

Dallas walked to Bonnie and whispered quickly.

"I bet you a keg that you can outdrink a Cloaker. And with the strong stuff too."

Bonnie looked at him with an incredulous look, before beaming with competitive vigor.

"I like that idea! Hey Jacket. Maybe you want to bury the bridge with a few drinks?"

Jacket stood a little confused. Abruptly, he grabbed Bonnie's mask off the floor and shoved it into her hands before pushing the armored door open.

"Okay! More for me!"


	4. Chapter 4

There was the laptop from last night. Dallas walked to the kitchen and pulled out the portable coffee. Flicking open a pantry door, he saw between the assorted bags and cans of coffee beans labelled for each of the others was his. It was a tin can holding Deer Droppings, but no one would really know that. After grabbing the can, Dallas turned on the coffee brewer on. It was good that there was still water inside to heat up. He opened the can and took out the grinder inside. Then beans were scooped into it and just in time, the coffee brewer was ready. After opening the lid, Dallas grounded the beans into the open filter. When the grinder was empty, he closed the lid with a snap and let the brewer do its work.

Dallas then walked back to the computer and flipped the monitor up. A thumping from the stairs signaled that someone was coming up. Dallas looked to the glass and saw Aldstone's gray hair appear in dim light. He would be wondering who else would be preparing coffee at this hour. Dallas then turned to the right of the giant television behind him and found its switch. After pressing it, the screen turned on and revealed the rest of the room surrounding it. The same descriptive photos and shiny trophies in their respective spots, undisturbed stores of archived data and architecture, and the most comforting of all, the always glossy walnut desks and expensive chairs, all in under a blue light.

The laptop was turned on, the blue light replaced with a light white. Dallas looked at the map of Washington in front of him, the many stages of brawls, gunfights, exchanges, and other events of criminal activity. To think that after all the heists and stunts they pulled, they haven't gotten to see where the lawmen they fight come from. Dallas looked back to the laptop and pressed the 'Enter'. Bain's intercom voice crackled into full volume.

"Okay…good. Do you know what the plan is for today?"

"I suppose we're going to visit Stockton again. But with an officer this time."

"Yes. That's is what is supposed to happen for today. Anyways, here's the route you should take."

On the big screen, Washington shrank to focus on a spot in a spot between the Safehouse and Downtown. It was a mess of streets and housings, but that was where Mr. Stockton did his work best. A line drew itself from the top most right of the streets and made a beeline to a cul-de-sac next to the hospital.

"According to our good doctor, he says we can stay there before 5:50. I've informed him of Hoxton's…injury and he has prepared for anything that might look serious. I suggest that Houston and Wolf come along with you to transport Hoxton and the Cloaker."

"Eh...Wolf can…no. He can come with us."

"Okay. I fixed enough of this visit so you can heal without attracting any attention. You just have to go at any time."

"I'll bring Clover along. Just to give James some moral support."

"Al…..Right. I got it. Also, Twitch wants to know which weapons you want armed and loaded."

"I'll ask around first. Then maybe when we see him again later tomorrow."

"Okay then. Due to the location the doctor has selected, you only get to use the TXV transmitter, which there is only one because the rest were damaged yesterday. The directions you need to take are in the GPS. I'll know when you want to start."

"Great. See you then."

Dallas pressed 'escape' and the big screen closed. After turning off the laptop, he turned to see Aldstone with the coffee he brewed earlier sitting in his gloved hands acting as a pedestal.

"Your dark roast Dallas, sir."

Dallas took the mug and heard the ice inside slosh around the coffee. Considerate as always, but sometimes too much so.

"Thanks," Dallas breathed, taking the iced coffee. The best thing in the early morning was always the smell of his coffee. If anything, it was the only pleasing sensation as a constant for the day. He brought his nose to take in the cool atmosphere around the mug, let it smell the sweet, dark...

 _The fuck?_

This wasn't a Deer Droppings. It was a soft milky smell with a hint of dark chocolate. He looked to who served him this.

"Aldstone! What happened to my coffee?"

Aldstone revealed Dallas's tin from behind his back.

"It was sadly expired. I had to substitute some of my breakfast tea and Master Hoxton's chocolate syrup to simulate the best I could of your favorite morning beverage."

Dallas only heard 'expired' and 'beverage' in Aldstone's words. His coffee was expired today? Was it already time to replace his coffee? Looking at the stamped date, it was surprisingly expired 10 months ago. Somehow this could explain the lasting aftertaste he had for the past week. Dallas pursed his lips and took a cautious sip.

The taste was…familiar. Another sip made Dallas realize that this actually tasted better than he liked. Sure, it was smooth, strong, but it had some sort of taste that was maybe Indian in origin. Like herbs or extracts of the like. Guess he had to settle for this in the morning this time.

"…Not bad. But I'd like this when I don't have anything else to drink."

"Duly noted, sir."

It was probably around 4 in the morning. Dallas straightened his tie the best he could without a mirror. Looking at his chest and the rest of his attire, it looked like the best presentation.

He looked to his right and saw Hoxton hobbling forward with Clover under his arm, both dressed in the American equivalent of a Sunday's best. He would have looked longer if it weren't for the injury and the grimace he had trying to walk on his own. Dallas walked briskly over to the two and put himself below Hoxton's left.

"Okay man, you gotta pick up the pace here."

"Guys? I think I can walk to the freaking car by myself."

Clover squinted at Hoxton before dropping her disbelief.

"Sure."

Immediately, she pushed herself away from Hoxton's arm and left him standing with Dallas, whom wormed his way out from Hoxton's other arm. Hoxton staggered forward before righting himself upward.

"Woah!"

Hoxton looked back and saw that Dallas had crossed his arms and Clover just smiling at no expense. His statement was given actual weight. Hoxton briefly considered his situation, faced the van's open door, and started shakily. Hoxton would inwardly swear as his haunches were seized by the fucking pain, but it seemed possible to do it.

They then both observed Hoxton's legs painfully pulled towards the van, with each foot closer to the van bringing bewilderment and sympathy. With each dragged step, the gap between his legs seemed to double. With each doubled gait, a murmuring increased slightly in volume. It was convenient to let Hoxton walk and have a better back in the afternoon, but it was exhausting just to wait. Thankfully before Dallas lifted a finger, Houston and Wolf called from behind. Ditching the dress suits for casual jackets was needed for this.

"Hey! What are you doing? This bitch in the chair needs lifting!"

"Just letting Hox walk. "

"No! *huff* I know what yer' thinking, but I got this! *huff* Just having sore balls isn't going to limit me! *huff* Especially when that bitch is here! *huff*"

"Maybe we can make him move faster with…"

"Give your pride a rest darling. I already appreciate it, but not much later if you plan to keep on going."

"…Yes, maybe you should listen to that Hox."

"*huff* Just-"

"We have to leave for our window in two. Get the ass the in the van, and the bitch after him!"

"What! Let's move!"

"*huff* Wha-"

Before he knew it, Hoxton was lifted by Dallas and Clover and thrusted into the open doors. He slid smoothly on the van's floor before stopping at the driver's seat.

"Shite! My a-oh…"

He heard the leather bound psychopath being loaded into the van by Clover and Dallas. Hoxton turned around best as he could half-recovered from yesterday. Just as he put a foot down, more pain exploded from below. Apparently standing up wasn't going to be accepted, so Hoxton settled himself against the other seat eying the monster.

Houston pushed the metal chair until the metal scrapping stopped. Dallas and Clover had gripped two sides before they pulled it onto a place in the van. Houston made his way to the garage and grabbed the ratchet straps from the seat. He tossed one to Wolf after he pushed the cart to its usual place. Wolf tossed what he caught to Clover in the van and another to Dallas. As Clover and Dallas wrapped and tightened the straps around She-Cloaker's chair, Wolf and Houston jogged to the driver and passenger seat.

As Houston unlocked the door and sat himself, he saw Wolf aggressively wrench his hands around the lock. The tarp itself, despite durable material, was having its plastic cover rippling across the fence gate from the thrashing. After Wolf had unlocked the inner lock, he was nearly tearing up the tarp covering the gate to reach the outside lock. Dallas nudged himself behind Houston and immediately he knew what was taking so long for the van to move.

By the time Wolf had unlocked the outdoor lock, half of the zip-ties used to secure the tarp to the fence were excessively ripped off out of restrained frustration. Wolf walked slowly towards the van doors, his breaths rather labored and deep. Just as he stepped foot onto the van floor, Houston shoved him to the ground, and slammed the doors shut. Wolf swore when he felt sores from yesterday spring up again.

"Javla Helveta! Houston! What was that for?!"

Houston lowered the window, having himself and Dallas peek out.

"Wolf. You have to rest. That head of yours…it isn't up to today. Go back inside."

"But I can still do this! It's only one stop and back."

"But what about your mail?"

Wolf's rising shoulders started to fall. He looked at himself, his brown jeans and white-t, now speckled with dirt and god-knows-what from the fence gate. He shouldn't be this dirty. Not this ready to go another run.

"Right! Thanks for telling me."

Wolf jogged with building energy in his legs straight to the gate, before grabbing its side with both hands, and exuberantly pushed it to the side. The van sped through, hands quickly waving from inside and outside the van's walls, before being drawn inside. Wolf waved back, but couldn't wait to open his mail. He rushed out and looked in the dark for the hidden cache. Then there it was, under a park bench. Wolf skipped in his steps towards the bench before reaching under its dusty wood. He never got care packages this early!

* * *

The good doctor was waiting out in the open entrance of the run down pharmaceutical store. Any normally sighted person would have trouble seeing the doctor's lenses in the dark, but the crew had went through enough covert heists to get used to the limited light. Besides, no one ever really came out to see the store soon before and after it closed. Unseen, the van coasted into the parking lot and stopped at the loading zone. Dr. Stockon walked cautiously to the van and peered at the driver's mirror. Houston greeted him with the same unnerving deadbeat face since last time.

He heard the van's doors slide open, and out of it came him, with his legs nearly as wide as a ballerina's stretched bounding leap. That is, with the aid of a familiar woman holding him up. No fragrance or cologne this time. He looked at the man with the same look he gave him some time ago. Given the man's overbearing and ignorant condescending, this was bound to happen later.

"Oh, don't give me that you-augh!"

"Oh, Mr. Hoxton, what happened this time, hmm?"

"Nothing that you could stand, like your wife back home."

"Ah yes, good one. But not as good as your injury I believe."

Hoxton bit his lip under the mask.

"Doc, he got hit hard in the balls. He needs a checkup. Like as soon as you can."

"I know, I've prepared for anything that can happen in the little boy's room to the little girl's room, and even what happens in between. But, I must see the other person you brought here."

"Coming!"

Clover and Hoxton moved out of the way and allowed Houston and Dallas to move the 'VIP' out of the van. It was a sad display of recuperation, seeing her body in a medieval looking chair. Even though he couldn't see the woman with this amount of light, there was already a feeling of heaviness in his gut, and the last he felt it was when he found a bullet in the liver of one Mr. Yoji. At least there was always a reward for all the people he stitched and cut up.

"So, where's the cash?"

"Here."

Dallas extended his hand holding the expected clear plastic bag of cash. Mr. Stockton opened it, felt within the feathery green paper, and promptly closed it after deciding it was the real deal.

"Good. You know what happens next then. Also, is she this silent?"

"Yeah, after we tried to talk to her. Scary bitch probably has a secret."

After taking a short look at the woman's unmoving body, Mr. Stockton took out the keys from under his coat and inserted them into the grainy metal lock of the pharmacy doors. Then, he twisted the key and stepped sideways to force it open. It revealed to the darker darkness inside. Steadily, he pulled the other door to make room for the 'VIP'. He watched as Clover and Hoxton made their way past the fallen shelves. Then he turned to see Houston and Dallas pushing the horrendous nightmare of an arm chair restraining the…

Now this was new.

As he closed the doors, he had to ask.

"So…Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah, Stock, it is."

Mr. Stockton thought about the law enforcer's position and his in all of this as he followed them into the examination room. One day you look over the pancreas of a wanted Russian mobster for 'a favor', and the next you decide to work with the ultraviolent vigilante group behind Crime Net on extended contract. It was quite a bewilderment. He'd only seen people like the one in the terror chair from the news and from several accounts the Payday Gang often supply, but here was one they actually brought home. He already broke his code of not asking beyond medical needs, but they were a valued source of income, so he had to be wary about their health outside of the clinic.

You don't get paid as much when your patients don't return back for another patch-up. Usually most of the people he fixed up were one-time or 2-time visitors, but the people that sent them to him were more needful of his services. The Payday Gang was one of these types and was introduced to him by the Dentist as to 'sweeten the deal' between his likeness and the most elusive guy of all, Bain.

In his line of work, Mr. Stockton noticed that they noticeably came more frequently with more costly injuries compared to other visitors, since the New Year being already and counting 6 visits. Sure others came close, but ever since he started checking up the group's diverse crew, he started to see less familiar faces ask for him. It was all for the money, dirty or not, so he couldn't go back on the Hippocratic Oath to excuse removing a source that was literally killing business , but it just sometimes dawned on him that he was riding the fine line of morality, whichever side that was.

This visit suggested that there was a stronger, personal matter that probably affected everyone in the Gang. It could be just business that he wouldn't be involved with other than just healing wounds or fixing loose ends, which certainly wasn't messy ethics. Surely the cop in the chair was deciding to become bad for a change they needed to live. But it was one of them.

They called them 'Cloakers', annoyingly scary sons-of-bitches. With their descriptions at best, Mr. Stockton thought they were iffy in the scope of human biology. It was bewildering to see a dislocated thumb, a cracked bone, or in this new case bruised testes inflicted by simply flesh. Sure, you could exercise enough to lift 2 times your own weight, but the ability to somersault 6 feet into the air was unheard of even in the Olympics. Additionally, their vocalized anger towards the heisters was something just as bewildering. If they were so professional, could they not yell in the faces of whoever was in their way or was the criminal that needed to be taken down?

The clinic door was quickly in sight. Light would soon be here, so he had to hurry with the examinations. Mr. Stockton felt around the frame until he found the light switch. The fluorescent light illuminated an immaculately clean green chair surrounded by 2 rolling trays of medical equipment, and 2 blue blood-streaked fabric screens to its left, and the visitors to the right. He looked to Dallas, expecting another answer.

"So, who goes first?"

"Hoxton. He goes firs-wait. Give me a sec. Bain?"

A moment of feverish discussion passed while Dallas seemed to talk with Bain in his ear. Then Dallas looked to Mr. Stockton.

"Yeah, he goes first. Like we needed to know that."

Hoxton hobbled forward with Clover in his arm. He didn't have any quips at this time. Mr. Stockton looked at Hoxton's now slightly depressed face, and thought better of it.

"Some of you have new facial scars I may have to look over, so come closer to the light so I can see them."

Thy seemed to give off a deadpanned stare before they moved closer. Hoxton's face was still scarred and disfigured as he remembered. Clover was lovely as always, but with the distinct worry further creasing her frowns. Houston seemed to have shaved himself this time, but he had some work done on his temples that could be fixed. Dallas still had the aged face, and the same breathing problems from smoking.

"Okay, I think it's just your face Houston. Just get a band aid on that cut. Now for you…"

And the new face…she had a terrible one. Pusface, he could could call her, but that wouldn't be chivalrous or accurate enough. God, he needed help with her. Maybe then…Oh shit. He forgot to call her, but that could be resolved later. There was some cash to make back payment with.

"*sigh*…I guess I have my work cut out for me. The man needs his privacy, so bring those blue screens over here to block the views for the women."

As Hoxton laid back on the green chair, Houston and Dallas rolled the screens to hide him. It was Clover and the she-Cloaker who stayed on the other side.

"Alright then, let's get into our business."

As Clover heard the distinct clattering of tools from behind the screen, the sounds of leather tightening jostled her senses. She aimed her eyes at the straps of the chair, and grabbed the end of her personal club when she saw the arms of the she-Cloaker threaten to tear off her restraints. Then, Clover stopped watching as the same sound of leather stretching stretched on.

* * *

There was a final snip and the physical was complete.

"Like they say, 'you really had a number done on you,' but not anything serious enough to put that out of commission. Now, I got some medication you have to apply for…12 to 13 days to your groin while you stay out of the strenuous activities. This also includes masturbation, so unless you want a bent penis when it heals, stay off it."

Hoxton grimaced at the doctor's prescription, but said nothing of it as he got up from the chair. The screens were pulled away and out walked Hoxton with pride back in his steps, albeit with a slight lurch forward. Clover's lips curved upwards for once to make a half-smile when he approached.

"So, how d'ya feel?"

"Less tender than before, but you heard him, I can't do much until my knob gets better."

"Yeah. Almost like that time you fell off trying to get down that roof. I tried to tell you, but you just had to take a gold bar from that poor bastard."

"Aye. Good thing I got you love."

As Clover started to play with her hair, Houston averted from the ensuing 'conversation' to come. It was just his punk ass attitude that gets him perturbed, but when he gets 'romantic', his accent gets sleazy enough to make him think about nailing him with a wrench. Fucking disgrace. Just as he turned, the she-Cloaker returned to view, just as off-putting.

Her body and limbs were restrained, but she seemed to believe she could snap the leather by continuously moving around in it. She was really trying hard, seeing that her wrists and ankles were starting to bleed endlessly cutting with the Velcro. What was she thinking? Houston walked to the chair, his shoes barely registering in the Cloaker's hearing. He stopped when he could see the white in her eyes, which was pretty hard to see with bloodshot eyes. It was like she was Wolf when he got sad over a lost loot bag, except the drives were lawfully opposite.

He made sure he had her attention.

"Hey. Cloaker-bitch. I got a few words to say to you."

The she-Cloaker opened her mouth to say something, a raucous voice about to form, but decided to grit her teeth to imitate a menacing wolf.

"Good. Now listen, you scary motherfucker. We as a gang…don't really like you. Jiro and Wolf especially. If you aren't being cooperative with us, then we have three options. One, we kill you and dispose of you. Make you don't exist. Like for real, not like that Black-Ops stuff where you get only a codename and portfolio. Option two is where we have Jacket-"

"Wait! Bain said we can't do option 2 with anyone…"

Dallas had stepped in and bumped shoulders with Houston. The she-Cloaker started to venomously switch glances between them.

"Okay, I see, if you're talking about her, maybe we can… Wait, what? We-…No then. We can't do it Houston."

"Right. So, okay…no option two then, where we break your mind with a sledgehammer and meth. We only have…option three. It's pretty damn simple. You work with us a little longer so you can live and get something out of this, and possibly die a painless death. You get anything we want, and we get you anything you want, as long as you don't get to dropkick us again. Not that it wouldn't help, since we can pin you down again. But it's not like we can expect you to trust us because we already have you trapped. It's because we already know how to deal with traitors."

The she-Cloaker had stared down Houston, but looked back at Dallas faster than considering an understanding.

"Hey, don't look at me. He's not lying or bluffing here. He's saying everything that we intend to do."

The she-Cloaker's eyes opened a bit more, becoming a little less bloodshot from squinting them to glare-stare, before she continued to try to wrestle her way out of the straps, though more sluggishly and less forcefully. Dallas heard a few steps behind him and glanced towards Mr. Stockton approaching him with phone in hand.

"I'm going to have to make a call. I can't do this as a doctor."

"Right now? Look at her!"

Dallas showed his hands to the she-Cloaker, seemingly sweating excessively and staining her already tattered uniform a darker black.

"You could operate on her or something now. Stock, We need her alive."

"I know, but this is beyond my oath. I can't do the checkup as a man, so I'm forced to call my…associate here. I knew I should have called her earlier."

Dallas noticed Mr. Stockton's breathing slowing. This was the opportunity to do something before it went wrong.

"She can handle this better than I can."

"Stock! You can treat the bitch just right fucking now! I'm fine with you having to operate here, but this oath is ridiculous! You can probably do a better job than that friend of yours! Just look her over and not get too hands-on with her!"

Dallas took a step closer to the doctor. His footstep's hollow echo jarred the she-Cloaker's attention.

"I understand, but no, my ethics come first."

"Screw your ethics. Look over the bitch so she can be out of our hair and yours."

Mr. Stockton was bald, but it still hurt as an inappropriate prod towards him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Steele, but it's these ethics that allowed me to help anyone, including you and your group. I could refuse you and you could all fend for yourselves."

"Yeah right Stock, you were paid to help us by us. But do you really want to help people or just get paid doing so?"

Mr. Stockton's shoulders sagged. Suddenly, he appeared to be twice as tired as the entire establishment itself.

"I told you before, I just need the money-I mean…use the money to pay for the-uh…no. We can't be distracted by this. This discussion will get old before we know it, so let me get my work done, so you can get yours done."

"You can't keep us."

"I'm not, it'll be just half an hour longer."

Dallas's furrowed eyes and hands followed the shape of Mr. Stockton escaping his grasp, but he couldn't stop him from doing his job.

It was twenty minutes ago that Mr. Stockton had left the building. The group waited until the sound of a coasting car came by.

'Good we're not compromised yet. Let's see where he's going."

The crew looked at the hidden weapons they had brought, and with trained silence in their steps, Hoxton and Clover moved first towards the exit, Dallas and Houston watching over them and their captive. Hoxton and Clover took the sides of the entrance they came through, and waited. The steps they heard first, a distinct set of two people on the asphalt. It was possible it could be a trap.

Hoxton grinned to Clover with a smirk in his eyes, but Clover gestured for inaction, and slowly slid a door open a crack. With her naked eye, she could see Mr. Stockton, and someone else. She held up one finger and then another to Hoxton. He in turn rested his finger on the trigger, waiting for the time to come.

Clover shut the door and motioned to fall back. Hoxton stood still watching Clover walk back to the examination room, before falling out of hiding and walking back as well. As soon as he made it to the room, Clover quickly holstered her weapon.

"It's a nice lass out there with him. Let's put away our guns for this."

Dallas, Houston, and Hoxton didn't look convinced, but clicks on safeties and fabrics being stretched were soon heard. Then they were back to acting natural. The door's grainy sliding was soon heard, and in walked the doctor himself, along with his associate carrying a suitcase. The woman, stern in her expressions yet harried in her other features, stopped in front of them in the examination room.

"Brandon? Are these…the people that you wanted help with?"

"Yes, Karen. One of them needs a physical, and I'm not a woman to do it."

'Karen' looked at Clover's civilian attire of a scarf and 2nd rate blouse and scrunched her eyes in slight distaste.

"This is who needs it?"

Dallas walked forward and answered, so to keep Mr. Stockton's eyebrows from warping upwards any further.

"No. Someone else needs it actually, over here behind us. And excuse the mess, it's the best Mr. Stockton had to offer for treating us every now then."

"And you are…?"

"Winds. Nathan Winds."

Dallas then turned to the others, his hands raised like Aldstone's showcasing new furniture or newly cleaned clothes.

"Let me introduce you to my associates. This is my brother Jason Winds, him Mr. Bens, and his significant other Ms. Aines."

The rest of the crew was bewildered by the new suggestion of new aliases by Dallas, but their surprise was already masked by the arrival of Mr. Stockton's aide. His associate in question, seemingly accepting their fake names with mild confusion, then looked to the 'chair' behind them.

"Wait. Is that who needs me?"

"Uh. Yes. That is…uh, Sarah! Sarah Bines! Who needs your help, if you kindly can."

Karen looked at Dallas with a noticeable 'are you joking' eyebrow and backwards head cock of total revulsion. The tattered woman in the 2nd rate mental asylum chair was considerably out of touch compared to these people. Clover leapt at this disbelief and silenced it with her story.

"Please help her doc, she was my friend! I spent all my life with her since middle school! I only wished the best for her. Then it all went wrong! We got into an accident and we don't know anyone in Washington who can work with our price except Mr. Stock!"

Mr. Stockton's associate eyed the she-Cloaker with slight disbelief. Was this really what Brandon told her that she was going to be doing a check-up on? She wasn't supposed to be this…mess. There was expected to be some college girl who got the wrong end of a crash, not some unrecognized urchin.

Somehow, this didn't surprise her. The man was far too kind for his line of work to be stepping into this line of work, no redundancy intended. He was adamant at some point to keep life support active for a patient even if his relatives did request on his behalf for him to die. The anguish she witnessed days later when the patient finally woke up from his concussion was nearly unbearable.

Now this was going to be a similar occasion she would have her own controversial role in. It didn't look like the woman was in a concussion with her eyes still open and moving, rather frantically to note, but around the same stakes if these were really poor people. Brandon expected her now of all times to do some work she herself was above from the very beginning? What was he thinking?! The nerve of his ought to be fixed by some point after this. Was her bag just expected to spill open with tools to fix up the woman?

The woman in the dirty chair looked at her with those eyes. They were so…green. Karen looked to the others. They also looked at her with their damned wanting expressions. She swallowed what she thought was her pride as a doctor of society as she prepared to address these people what she intended to do. She was going to regret this but she knew it was realistic.


	5. Chapter 5

For some reason, their pupils seemed to disappear for her as they continued to stare. Was this the atmosphere, or was she starting to go crazy?

"No."

The people around her twitched when she said it, her husband less so by her decision. It wasn't so much that she had something against them; she had something against their wallets. How were they going to pay for the supplies she would use? The hours of lost sleep for concentration? The fines for possible health code violations? Maybe Brandon did cover the health codes fine if he still did some operations on these people, but the rest of the other expenses were just beyond her.

With that woman's condition, she wasn't going to expend an entire month's salary worth of medical equipment and medicine (this was apparently what Brandon meant by, 'just in case, bring everything') when she could use them for less serious situations, or even for other people with more money in their pockets for compensation.

"You're asking too much out of me. Once I get to work on her, I wouldn't be as able to look over others in my job."

Jason Winds sharply turned up his nose before facing her completely head on. Wasn't anything she didn't see in the office.

"What…La-Ma'am, what kind of doctor job do you have that gives you the goddamn right to refuse giving help!?"

"One that's on a budget. I'm an assistant of an otolaryngologist at the Helix Institute. Even though he gets most of the paycheck, I'm forced to buy most of our medical tools and medicine for appropriate use. I can't even ask for equipment loans from other departments because they're too expensive. I'm still studying, but I'm allowed to give look-overs with what I know."

Like his brother, Nathan Winds's body language appeared to be growing more livid than what his first impression displayed. Wasn't anything she didn't see in the office either.

"Then why can't you treat the…woman here and now when you have that suitcase!? I'm thinking it's filled with stuff we need to fix up the girl, so why are you not using it?!"

"Mr. Winds. In this suitcase, there are enough medical supplies and instruments to treat 15 people for minor injuries, 10 for moderate, 3 for serious, or 1 for mortal. This is basically my entire job budget, so if I use up all of this, since that is what that woman probably needs, other people are going to suffer for the next 3 weeks. I was assuming I wouldn't expend much for this woman, but I cannot afford to lose more people seeing how injured she is and how little money you offer. My job security-"

"Miss, would a couple thousand help ya out?"

"Not much. It doesn't make the medical equipment appear faster."

The people's frowns started to appear, much like before. The woman in the dirty chair had lowered her head.

"I'm sorry. My job security is nearly everything I have."

Silence surrounded them all in the faded examination room. Nobody made a sound or move. Mr. Stockton twisted his lips to say something, until Jason Winds pulled something from his shirt, surprising everyone.

Houston aimed a silenced pistol to Mrs. Stockton, then aimed it between her and Mr. Stockton as their eyelids and hands went up. The others looked ready to protest, but out of consensual instinct, they had already grabbed and revealed their hidden weapons from underneath their attires. He was sure to pull their strings to get things done.

"What the fu-Hous-Jason! Why yer' pulling that out!"

"Drop the act, it's clear she's not going to listen to us. We're going to get that bitch fixed up now even if others are going to have to wait in line."

Mr. Stockton looked to his wife. She had dropped the luggage and was shaking from her hands to her knees. He looked to the heisters, thinking better of their humanity, but clearly, he was mistaken. Their eyes weren't sympathetic.

"Mr. Winds…What…who…?"

"My name's not Jason Winds! His name's not Nathan Winds. He's not Mr. Bens! She's not Ms. Aines! We're the goddamn Payday Gang! And we want you to fix up that monster bitch in the chair, or we'll make you wish you'll-!"

While Houston was waving his gun around, Dallas reached out and grabbed Houston's gun before punching his elbow. Houston yelped and discharged a shot into the office, nearly hitting Mrs. Stockton's ear, and releasing his pistol into Dallas's hand.

"No. We won't. But we still need that-"

Dallas was already putting Houston in a headlock, but both them, Hoxton, and Clover were paying attention to the suddenly disappearing meekness between the Stocktons. Mrs. Stockton was looking at her husband noticeably differently, and Mr. Stockton was looking as if he wasn't the husband.

"Brandon. Is what this man saying true?"

"…Yes."

She stalked towards him, and despite him backing away in skittish fervor, she caught him in her hands and wrung him back and forth while screaming behind her gritted teeth.

"You son of a bitch! You dense simple man! You stupid degenerate zygote! Why did you have to help the Payday Gang?! Did you know these fuckers kill so many MPDs that it ran red for an entire day on 25th!? They're on the news for sending so many hard-headed fucks to our clinic, and you decide to take in the motherfuckers for all the shit they do!? They got lots of money they could pay us for, but we cannot fix up the people that will send more to the hospital! We could be sent to jail for this and lose our medical licenses! Why did the flying fuck you decide to do this!?"

"Bain…wait. Sh-I know. Just shut up for a second. The doctors are arguing."

Mr. Stockton's face was at the mercy of her rage, but he seemed to be willing to last through the scorn of his wife for a clearly inane or justified reason.

"Why Brandon! Why the fuck did you help them?!"

Mrs. Stockton stopped shaking him and let his head fall forward loosely. Her thin frame could only be angry for so long, but his hesitation could only test her patient exhaustion for so long as well. The heisters loosened themselves and let the woman continue grasping the man. Houston forced himself and Dallas up and grabbed back his pistol, before holstering it inside his pocket and waiting for what Mr. Stockton had to say. The she-Cloaker herself was intrigued by this development of events, her alert eyes patiently watching the two.

"WHY!? We could lose so much from this! They're not worth-"

Mr. Stockton had put a hand around Mrs. Stockton's mouth. He looked up and stared as nonchalantly as he could with the truth, but he seemed too strained to say something straight to her. Nonetheless, he spoke with his trembling lips.

"It…um, was to…cover…an experimental drug. The one that could fix your condition."

Mrs. Stockton's anger seemed to dissolve into her hands when she heard those words, because that was when she punched Mr. Stockton with all her unbridled anger, and sent him to the ground, and left herself standing with black long hair covering her face.

"Bain? You hearing this? This is just golden. We could give them some serious money after this and see how they deal with it. No? Okay, okay, I was just joking."

"Mr. Steele. We can both hear you. Let me have this."

Mr. Stockton looked back at his wife from the ground and instantly he saw the same look when he asked her to marry him. Confusion, anger, sadness, and a touch of surprise mixed in with her features. In her hair's shadow under the lit room, her small tears shined like diamonds. Not because he was happy to see them on her face, but rather because they were finally on the same page. He took another deep breath.

"We've…always wanted one, right? Even though we never talked about it after last year. With our budget, we can actually raise a kid, but not enough to cure your infertility or adopt one. I know it's sad and selfish, but I think it's something to make us feel better about life. Plus, mom's been talking too much about having kids, so I thought, why not take a friend's contact number and hook up with additional clients instead of the minor ones at the Covenant? And even if you say no-"

"Hey, love? Want to speed this along? Some of us are trying to get out of here."

"Ms. Clover, please, would you kindly, shut your fucking-"

"I'll do it then."

Everyone felt some waning relief at the mention of that vague answer from Mrs. Stockton. Houston looked away and looked back at the two doctors, his arms crossed in patience. Clover and Hoxton regarded each other before looking back at the conversation. The she-Cloaker appeared to be trying to escape again, her eyes far away from focusing on the doctors and beading on the heisters. In all of this, Mrs. Stockton's grim face was starting to look soft.

"Okay Bain, it looks like we can finally get the checkup on her now…I can't have made this faster! Stock's got his marriage a bit loose and tight here."

The atmosphere seemed to warm up. Mrs. Stockton turned, and walked slowly to the she-Cloaker, bringing her suitcase of medical supplies with her. The she-Cloaker turned to the approaching woman, regarding her slow, calm steps. Mrs. Stockton stopped and looked at her with mild disgust, the same shared by Mr. Stockton when he looked at her, who was now picking himself off the floor.

"Ahh…that smarts. Ouch…Thanks Karen."

Mrs. Stockton's left eye turned back and looked on with the stare of an angry dead fish.

"I'm only doing this because they have guns Brandon. We'll talk about this after the checkup. Or anything else that pops up."

When her deathly apathetic voice finished talking, she looked forward and Houston and Dallas had pulled up the blue screens to conceal what was behind.

When she was sure the screens were on, Mrs. Stockton opened up the suitcase and pulled out the gloves and hair cap from the organized mess. She looked around the woman in the chair, seeing the dust, discarded cans, used gloves, and drops of blood on the floor. A harsh chill ran through her spine, not exactly helping the excess warmth in her body. A clear, open workstation was usually required to do checkups. Usually.

Steadily, she wrapped around her cap around her hair, feeling some of the sticky sweat until all of it was inside. Then she grabbed the gloves, and then quickly distanced her hands from herself realizing there were splotches of black liquid on them. The black dye was apparently easy to remove with enough sweat and stress. Mrs. Stockton knew it was non-toxic dye, so she hurriedly pulled the gloves tight on.

There was the woman in the chair. The fact that she was restrained meant that she could be dangerous to approach and examine her closely. Perhaps drugs or money had a lot to do with the danger this individual presented to be restrained in this...chair. The spikey Velcro in contact with her only solidified her purpose of being immobilized so harmfully. _How the fuck am I supposed to do this if she's this dangerous?,_ Mrs. Stockton observed.

Additionally, the quiet nature of the woman begged the question if she was mentally conscious. Mrs. Stockton took a tongue depressor stick from the suitcase and approached her face. Clearly, decent fingernails of the woman were forgone for whatever the reason she chose, but that was where she would touch the stick. With her precision, she held the stick closer and closer to a digit. But a 2nd glance on her eyes made the stick stop, since you didn't have to touch someone who was keenly aware of you about to touch, and then aware of someone else in the area.

A low whistle blew before becoming shriller to the ears. Mrs. Stockton twisted her vision and saw the 1st woman she looked at earlier with a piqued interest in her eyes, a half-smile mysterious and dangerous on its own. Supposedly, this woman was not Ms. Aines according to the gunman from earlier. What would she be doing here?

"My, My. First day jitters? Or are you still disturbed by what your husband said to you?"

"Yes. I'm still…disturbed. But I can still do this. Let me-."

"Yeah, I know! Just get on with it!"

"Let me concentrate."

Mrs. Stockton looked back to the woman in the chair. She didn't look trustful of her new company, just like Mrs. Stockton herself.

"Ah relax! I'm just here to see that nothing shifty gets pulled here and you get fixed up. And well, you both already know what happens if you do. No pressure though."

Mrs. Stockton met the urchin's eyes with a less apprehensive stare. As much as she hated having someone just watch over her, it was oddly motivating in this case. She was still facing an internal emotional rollercoaster, but somehow it felt controlled, like she could still move her hands where she wanted them to go. In testament to this, Mrs. Stockton had subconsciously summoned a remedial checklist for the woman in the 'chair'. First, emotional and mental overview, then external injuries, then internal injuries, then finally prognosis, diagnosis, and prescription. It felt startlingly simple. Now she had to open with a question.

"So…How are you?"

Mrs. Stockton's question was taken by the woman as a frank one. She leaned backward in her restraints to look away from her, trying to make sense of the doctor's intelligence in asking the question. Then after a brief consideration of security, she looked up at the doctor's eyes, not taking them away, and leaned as forward as she could. Her inflamed bruises and coagulated blood shined in the light. Mrs. Stockton held herself from approaching, before orienting her ears closer. The woman in the chair opened her mouth, but a strained air only seeped out, and more of it came out with a flapping of her fish-like lips. Mrs. Stockton was now in delicate concern. Given the absence of a clear syllable from the woman's attempted talking, it was clear she had lost her voice, or at least control of her voice-box. But if that was the case…

"What happened to her?"

It was a briskly-stated question and Clover didn't look like she had the answer. She turned outside, an eye still on the doctor.

"'Ey! You guys know what happened to the lass in the chair? Doc's wanting to know."

Outside the blue screen, the crew was seething in annoyance.

"Why would we need to say this? Doesn't the doc just fix up what she sees is wrong and everything's better?"

"No. I do need to know what happened to her. Several things can happen that can cause her to lose her voice. Psychological trauma, physical trauma, severe allergic-"

"OH SHI-Wait! Bain! I got this. Look, Miss Stockton, we really hurt her because… she was about to kick our ass. So, we uh, had to go for the throat. Really hard."

"…Right. But-did you really choke her strongly enough to make he-"

"No. We threw a server at her throat. It knocked her out."

Mrs. Stockton's hypothesis was confirmed. Only she could know in the medical world that this woman more likely needed an immediate laryngoscopy or hopefully something else less worse. The good thing here was that she brought the appropriate tools to look over the possible affected areas. The bad thing was that the operation was going to have a massive expenditure of her anesthesia, but that couldn't be an issue anymore.

She needed additional help however.

"I need Bran-Mr. Stockton to be here."

"Why? You need to hold his hand?"

"No. This isn't a check-up anymore. We're going to have to start an invasive surgery. Now."

Mrs. Stockton looked to Clover for an appropriate response. She crossed her arms, before pointing with her head to what was behind her.

"Go right ahead and tell him yourself."

Mrs. Stockton stiffened, but righted herself towards outside the blue screens, and walked out from behind them. The crew waiting outside turned to her, with Mr. Stockton following suit before looking both stiff and concerned by her approaching. He shoved his hands into his coat pocket, when she stopped in front of him. The cleanly dressed man from earlier shuffled forward, half of his shape nearly blending into the unlighted areas behind him.

"Oh…what's up-?"

"Brandon. I'm going to need to start an invasive surgery. In here. And I need an anesthesiologist with me to do this properly."

"Wait what-uh-What's happening with the bitch?"

"Well…sir, because of what I think…happened… to her throat, massive damage I believe, it is possible that she has an internal tear or vocal cord injured. You're going to have to wait for the-"

"No wait. If you know who we are, then you should know that we can't wait here. So, the woman doesn't have to…wait…Excuse me for a second."

Dallas pressed into his ear, as if listening in to an earpiece, but there weren't any wires that anybody could see, or that no civilian could see. Wireless was the next best thing to assume.

"…Okay…But we really should get out of here…How important is she?"

Dallas's raised hands dropped down for a moment, and then he covered half of his face in his dress shirt. As weird as it was point out, the man seemed to be control of whoever who held a gun up to anyone, so what did that matter. After some grimaces were seen on the man's temple, his chin was soon seen again with his rested smirk upturned to a tired frown.

"So. I guess we do have to stay longer."

Houston's hands clenched tightly before being released, much like his breathing. Clover and Hoxton looked grim but seemingly unperturbed in body behavior. Mr. Stockton pulled his nervous hands out of his pockets, his nerves forced to be less on edge for the task he would have to refuse.

"Karen. You know I can't do this. I will not break that oath I took after what happened in Geneva. I do not want to risk it-"

"Brandon. Screw your ethics. Just help me clean her out."

Mr. Stockton's mouth closed faster than the punch he received earlier. He didn't have a reason for her when she was this focused. She had to know that she could easily refuse them as he threatened Mr. Dallas with. But looking at the possible hostility he and she were facing, it was going to have to be touch and go. He looked to his associate in the eye.

"Let's go then."

He followed her to behind the blue curtains, breathing deeply as he passed Ms. Clover, and observed once again the VIP herself. Ms. Bines, or 'Pusface', still looked the same, but with a more or less relaxed look in her eyes, as if she felt she was in a regular hospital. She looked peculiarly sharp for her circumstances. Mr. Stockton looked back to his wife for a shared impression. She wasn't sharing one at the moment.

"What? Get the anesthesia. We can't do this yet until you prepared her."

"Wait. No. Not ready yet."

If they were really going to have an invasive surgery, why wasn't the woman showing the conditions that resulted from a life threatening throat injury? Wouldn't her neck be red and inflamed from internal injuries? She should be expelling blood from cuts made in her trachea. She was still breathing, and probably just well enough when they took her from whatever hell that was.

"Miss…Bines? If that's really your name. Do you think you know what hurts in your throat?"

She shifted to her left before looking back and shaking her head no.

"Okay. No matter, just don't worry about it. But, we are going to help you."

The She-Cloaker's eyes seemed annoyed for some reason. She fidgeted in her restraints as she nodded no again.

"Brandon, you can't just take your time here! We could be caught in any moment!"

"Shush, Karen. Now, what are you trying to say?"

Her hands stopped moving, then seeming to grab something in the air, tried to remove her hands.

"Okay, I see. Let me help you."

One of the leather restraints was touched and then slightly grasped. Before he knew it, Mr. Stockton felt a large slap on the back of his head and his body falling to the side. While he was rubbing his head, Clover appeared in front of him, a wooden stick with a bulbous end in hand. Mrs. Stockton didn't move out of over exhausted surprise, just opening her eyes a little bit.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!? She's in that chair for a reason!"

"Augh. Alright. I knew what I was about to do. It was a mis-"

A hand gripped Clover's shoulder, and she whipped it away while mildly smacking Mrs. Stockton. A moment of calm seemed to strike her in her urgency.

"Stop. I…You."

Mrs. Stockton looked to the restrained woman, then back to the club-toting heister.

"She's trying to write. She needs a pen. Or something to write with."

Clover's arms and anger in the form of her club went down.

"What?"

The blue screens were pulled the side and Mr. Stockton was more than unhappy after he saw the barrels of pistols. His work area was trespassed on by Dallas, Houston and Hoxton aiming lasers at his body. Clover turned to Mrs. Stockton in her dazed confusion, who was already reaching for her suitcase. She didn't move further when Houston aimed his pistol at her, again.

"ALRIGHT, what the bloody fuck did I just hear? What were you trying to do?"

Clover lowered her club and slowly steadied herself, aware of the sudden conflict that would happen if she did nothing. Mr. Stockton yammered to himself as he got himself up, not completely caring about how close he was to be shot.

"Argh…no. No! Get out already! This is supposed to be a cleared off-area!"

Clover took in a quick breath and glided over to Hoxton and Dallas, forcing their guns away from Mr. Stockton. Hoxton's steely gaze seemed to lose its certainty when she stepped in from of them.

"Wait. Wait... Don't go shooting his body out just yet. Doc was apparently wanting to see if she could write."

The crew that threw down the blue screens held their guns for a few seconds longer, before relaxing into their 'I'm watching you' positions, their guns ready to fire but not ready to kill. Mr. Stockton briskly stepped up from the floor and proceeded to search through the briefcase, Mrs. Stockton later searching out a pen from inside her pockets. Soon after a 'click' was heard, the swift sound of grabbing medical papers was heard as well. The she-Cloaker looked around herself in patient wariness as Clover moved one of the rolling tables closer to her right while Mrs. Stockton handed the pen to the she-Cloaker's right hand, the utensil being grasped tightly and quickly. Mr. Stockton quickly regarded the woman with the same courtesy smile he gave before to his patients and exchanged the tray of surgical tools with blank medical forms.

"Right. So…I get to release her arm?"

The heisters looked at Mr. Stockton's absurdly placed question with tiresome impatience. Mr. Stockton would slowly start to get on with it, but Hoxton thankfully interjected.

"Yeah. Just do it."

"Okaaaaaaay…"

The leather was removed and instantly Mrs. Stockton and Mr. Stockton were more alarmed than shaken to observe the savagely injured woman. The woman's wrist was covered in blood-red spots lined with black scabs when it slowly raised itself up a pen in hand. Her forearm's fair white skin was also stained with purple bruises probably from other stresses. Other wounds now visible were best forgotten. The she-Cloaker then seemed to gingerly massage her throat first for a few seconds, ignoring Houston's deliberate aiming, before sensitively touching the pen to the paper to write. The crew exchanged glances with the Stocktons before the she-Cloaker shortly pulled back her pen and turned her writing to face the crew.

The crew only looked more frustrated, much to the Stocktons' and she-Cloaker's disbelief. Her moderately sized text was wildly unreadable cursive, worsened by jumping ticks in the letters.

"Um…write this better. We can't read this."

The she-Cloaker looked at Dallas disapprovingly, an air of annoyance in her eyes. Supposedly, her writing should be able to be read, with a little discerning and nuance obviously, but it wasn't that poorly written. She righted the pen back to the paper, and after staring them down for a moment, focused as hard she could to write in a print format. Then after a considerable but not distressing amount of time had passed, Dallas lowered his gaze to a newly written message. The letters were still written with an unsteady hand, but were slightly less curvy and otherworldly to be able to be read.

 _There. Does this help you?_

Her writing was now a little bit more legible, more literate to read. Dallas nodded to the woman, who took back the paper and wrote once more, pausing occasionally to gingerly scratch her nose. Then she finished, and the paper was pushed back with a huff.

 _Everything hurts, but that's because of you fucking assholes. I don't know why I can't speak. but I know that Wolf was who hurt my throat. Are you trying to get me to talk about the agency? I won't tell you anything._

Dallas looked at the text skeptically for what the woman was possibly hiding. From what the woman was sharing, she didn't give a shit about herself, which was a lot harder to work with. He pushed the paper back to share his words.

"We know that already. But nothing about how you use that radio of yours. To make this easier for all of us, Mr. Stockton'll-"

"Karen would be doing the operation for this, not me."

"-…Mrs. Stockton'll fix you up so you can talk better. Or as much as she can, and we can just try to make you more…pleasant so we can reach an agreement. The whole point to this is so you can open up to us about what you know, and we can hurt you less the more we're happy. "

The she-Cloaker squinted at him. This seemed too simple for a 'lieutenant of the Payday gang' to state. Where was the blatant bluffing and lying? Still it was a forceful statement.

"I just want to tell you this because we're not a dangerous group of criminals. We're the dangerous band of criminals that can be your worst enemies or best friends."

The she-Cloaker took this with uncertain regard. To her, it was all a huge assumption on what would happen next; one party was going to bully the other, and the other would submit to them, and suffer as a used puppet. Clearly times were not changing. She was in their possession, so she could, in technicality, not be able to do anything at all to hinder their motives. But as the woman had to hate her tormentors, they couldn't actually kill her as the circumstances seemed to entail. They apparently wanted to hold back on her. The bastards were actually wide open for her. She was in their possession, so she could, in reality, be able to do anything at all to stop them at their tracks. It was an entirely new assumption on what was really happening; one party was going to serve the other, and the other would find a way to escape them, and finally bring them what they asked for.

"Oh hey, Mr. Stockton, if we don't get this done, Bain said that we're allowed to take you…"

The woman looked back to Dallas, whom observed the slight openness of the woman's eyes with mild surprise. In the time that passed, she went still a minute ago, dropping the pen, slowing her shivering shoulders, and relaxing into an odd meditative state that rang silent alarms in Dallas's cognition. She was thinking something that he didn't see, or she was actually suffocating. But it wasn't the matter at hand, because he could easily deal with that later. Now he just wanted the woman to not be nodding off just yet. And also be off her high pillar of justice.

"Hey! Back to us. Back to us."

Dallas quickly grasped the woman's chin and shook roughly the woman out of her sudden stupor. Once the woman nearly grabbed his arm, he wrenched it away from her.

"We have to do your stuff now Stock. Listen to what-"

"Enough Mr. Steele. Sorry, but let me try being specific so I can get an idea of what's really going on in her throat."

Dallas was roughly pushed aside by Mr. Stockton. Like Dallas, the other heisters felt compelled to use their weapons against the doctor's flippant desire to skip the 'necessary' chat, but they had to shut up and let the medical savant do what he needed.

"Now miss, do you think you can…uh…"

"Brandon, it's her throat."

"Oh, thanks Karen, okay...what do you…specifically feel in your throat?"

A written response was given back.

 _Dry, and something hard. I don't know what it is._

The Stocktons looked at each other with knowing concern. Evidently this pointed to a foreign object that was restricting air flow through the vocal cords. It would have turned into a malignant bulge that could permanently affect the woman's voice if left alone. Looking at the room they had to do the operation, it would be too cramped for them to progress with the procedures. Mr. Stockton then looked to Dallas with such potent intent in his eyes that Houston stopped smirking from the letter.

"My associate is right. This is serious Mr. Steele. If your…valued person of interest is to speak within acceptable standards, she really needs an immediate invasive surgery. A laryngoscopy to be exact."

Mrs. Stockton followed suit in her husband's grave visage.

"We need to get a lot of space for this. This operation. It can't be this cramped anymore."

Dallas turned to the crew. Houston looked annoyed. Hoxton was skeptical. Clover was concerned.

"You heard the lady. Let's move the bitch outside and clear up the space so the docs can get their jobs done!"

The crew shared a face of surprise and disbelief hearing his words, but immediately Clover and Hoxton nodded and headed outside the room. The Stocktons collected their medical supplies, while Houston watched on with confusion now coloring his face.

"What? Why? She can just talk to us the way she's doing now."

"Well, Bain wants us to still have some kind of good image, or so he says, so we have to treat the bitch like she's the…uh, Taxman."

The she-Cloaker glared once more in the chair hearing this, but limped over in sort of exhaustion. Dallas briefly stopped, wary of a fake nap, but soon he stepped behind her and readied himself to lift the woman out of the room. Houston still stood, defiantly confused.

"Then why the fuck do we have to help her this much? She probably dreams of us rotting in prison!"

"Ey'! Are you going to move the fucker or what? The bitch's not looking good."

Houston turned and readied himself to call the bastard a dumb bastard, but it stopped at his lips when he saw the burns. He stopped himself and thought no more of it, because as much as he hated the guy's roguish self-righteousness, he never felt so distanced from someone that lost half their face just for the Gang, or anybody else for that matter. Unnerved and quiet, Houston turned to the half-asleep she-Cloaker, took a deep breath, and heaved up her chair, silently seething for whatever reason. Dallas noted the sudden silence that his brother had and acted quickly.

"Hey, it's just a job."

With a low head and equally low tone, Houston simply said back:

"I know."

* * *

The operation was long and tasking. After releasing the surprisingly limp Cloaker from her chair and placing her on an improvised operating table made of turned over shelves and thick clean blankets, she keeled and expelled her insides all over Houston's jeans. Not only did this hammer on many sensitivities in the able-bodied, but it also spelled only more discomfort that they would have to endure.

Thankfully, the Stocktons didn't seem to be inhibited by the vomit and were unfazed to the preparation of the instruments, the execution of the operation, and the final prognosis. The heisters acted as their unwavering impromptu assistants (some less than others) but they themselves started to keel over from the mental stress of following very medically nuanced directions, but if it were not for the patience of Mr. Stockton and Dallas's expansive consensus, it would have been a botched job.

Considering the spirit of the clandestine operation, after repeatedly cleaning the operating area from vomit, constantly fishing out medical equipment from Mrs. Stockton's suitcase, and dealing with the infernal remarks of Mr. Stockton, the woman wasn't looking so ugly.

"I suppose this is fine."

The she-Cloaker had a new body, or so to speak. A couple of bandages and stitches here and there, but nonetheless cleaner than before, if you considered a bloodied half-dressed mummy clean.

"How odd. Supposedly you should have been able to feel a broken microphone in your throat that would restrict your vocal cords. The only way it could have been forgotten would be when something strongly numbing was consumed."

The bandaged woman looked away sharply to the statement of Mr. Stockton with her eyes wide open. Then as suddenly as she quaked from it, her disturbed face (as much as it was after the operation) vanished into a resolute one.

"Anyways. Try not to yell so much. Your throat is still recovering from the stitches, but these cuts heal after a week or so. In the meantime, try to refrain from hot or cold foods. They could disturb your throat and limit the amount of healing it goes through, and then you would have to see me again!"

The she-Cloaker seemed to exchange a silent thank-you with the Stocktons within the confines of her terrible chair. Expected light humor was lost however in the gratitude.

Mrs. Stockton took a deep breath. This was going to be the last surgery outside of the hospital she would ever do. Even if the Payday Gang would be there. How could Brandon do this, for other individuals, and all apparently just for her…their…sake. It just felt…dirty; touching, but dirty. No, it was just dirty.

She felt a tight grasp on her arm and she flashed to her side to see Mr. Stockton just locking his hand around her. She felt slightly startled to run away, but his grasp was too gripping to let her go. He smiled a little at her, just for comfort's sake. This was usual when they worked together that they celebrated, but it didn't have the same effect as other times before.

"Well…Good job. We did it."

Mrs. Stockton said nothing, only nodding on the affirmative. The brother of Mr. Steele stepped in front of her and hoisted the despicable chair up to step outside the door. She watched as the morning light colored the desolate public grounds, faded and dilapidated buildings with alarming depth appearing where they always were. As the patient was pushed into the van, the rest of the dangerous posse filed out and stepped into the van's other shaded interiors. She could see their tired, grayed eyes as they took seats and quietly prepared to leave.

"Hey!"

The burn scar man that helped her with providing stitches looked back with a distant 'what?' look.

"What doc?"

Mr. Stockton held up a smiling mask. A rather displeasing image it was.

"Ah. Thanks!"

The man stepped out, took the mask before placing it on his scalp. Mrs. Stockton silently yelped when the man looked at her. It only just took the mask's stare to further confirm who they were actually dealing with.

"Miss Stock! I know that this might not help you enough, but I think you deserve this."

Hoxton pulled out a binded dollar bill stack out of a hidden pocket and held it at arm's reach. Mrs. Stockton's eyes glanced between him and the cash with uncertain trust. When an awkward second seemed to pass, Mr. Stockton stepped forward to grab the bills, which Hoxton pulled back in annoyance.

"'Oi! This money goes to your wife! She did good work in there."

Mr. Stockton was a little taken back, but he stepped back in understanding. Hoxton then extended back the bills to Mrs. Stockton, waiting for her grip on the stack.

Mrs. Stockton's coat ruffled in the breeze as she slowly and softly touched the bills, and pulled it from Hoxton's hands. She felt the crisp folds and slightly heavier paper, the money of a criminal. She looked at the other people waiting inside the van, before settling on the smile of Hoxton's mask. She took a small step back.

"Soft little thing you are. You have good hands though."

He looked to Mr. Stockton and gave him a thumbs-up.

"Thanks for the surgery."

Mr. Stockton held his hands behind his back to reflect the professional tone they had to keep.

"Keep yourselves safe."

With that, Hoxton and the woman pulled the doors closed and the van drove out of the lot and out of sight. Mrs. Stockton held the bill stack close to herself, before she crushed it in one of her hands and faced her husband. She needed answers.

"Brandon."

"Yes, Karen sweetie?"

"We have to talk about this now."

"…about what?"

"About why you're in here. Why you're helping these people."

When they walked back inside the pharmacy, Mr. Stockton himself had this tired look in his eyes. It was also displeasing.

" *sigh* Look. It was just I got in touch with a friend who gets things done. No…He got in touch with me. He said he needed a person to fix people up with no scruples."

Mrs. Stockton didn't think this was the answer she needed. She just wanted him out of this place.

"Look, Brandon…You could have went and got permission to work another shift. You could have participated in those international missions or something-"

"No. They don't help. They don't pay as well as you think."

The cash in Mrs. Stockton's hand never felt so much heavier, and yet she felt she could throw them as far as she could. Her husband was apparently a part of some black market monopoly, and if it meant dealing with people like who she just met, it wasn't worth the pay.

"I wouldn't get as much money as I need-as we need…to get a fix for your-"

"Brandon…You don't have to work anymore."

A pause struck the already heavily stirred air. Mrs. Stockton would soon introduce a considerable counterpoint.

"Why?"

"I don't want you to."

"But…I just said, I just said we needed money to fix your condition. And-"

"I accepted not being able to have kids. And you should too."

Mr. Stockton's eyes twitched. His whole body twitched, but Mrs. Stockton didn't seem perturbed. A shaky voice came and grew shakier as it talked.

"Denton said he knew a possible drug to help us. An effective but forgotten one. Something that could actually help you get pregnant."

Mr. Stockton's fists closed up, but Mrs. Stockton wasn't backing down, even though she knew she would be facing a firing squad.

"He asked me to work up a price for 2 years. It costed that much to remake it, and I still have 2 more weeks of this before I'm finally done. Then I have to wait 2 more before it's delivered to us. And now…"

His stomp on the ground seemed to shake the entire floor. As far as Karen knew, Brandon didn't have the right body to do so, but if it really was about kids…

"How can I wait, work, and live…when you don't even want to have kids anymore!?"

Quickly before he could get hand contact on her, Mrs. Stockton quickly jammed her fist into her husband's xiphoid process. Because he was pigeon-breasted, Mr. Stockton was easily sent back a few feet into the pharmacy's entrance.

Mr. Stockton snarled in rasping pain in his chest. Slightly blinded by the morning light, he staggered but righted himself to put himself on course. The light was a little too blinding. He turned his eyes away and faced the darkness to find his wife. And there she was. In her white bloodied coat, her hands placed in precise locations to be best used, familiar attire and behavior at the operating table.

It was her.

He stopped moving. Mr. Stockton wouldn't and couldn't do this to his wife. He didn't need words to convince her what he was doing was right. He knew it was right, and she knew it was right, albeit in a desperately twisted way. He didn't need to go any further. He let himself become more fluid, less solid, because he only wanted to hear what kept him going.

He looked at Karen and noticed the panic and determination in her eyes that oh so needed to be gone.

"Karen."

Her shoulders hunched back.

"You wouldn't object to kids though. Would you?"

The innocent question hung over them like flies over a rotten piece of flesh. Mrs. Stockton seemed to wave off this question with regained firmness. Only Mr. Stockton could see a conflict seemed to cloud her, making her look away from her husband, before festering in her the weakening shoulders, and rotting her entire straight stature into a curving and writhing shape. All these small movements in her body told him he was right.

She looked back at him with conflicted resolve, still not wanting to give up on her statement. Mr. Stockton took a deep breath and brought his hands into his pockets. He ignored the blinding light at his left.

"Karen. I'm still doing this."

Mrs. Stockton let her hands fall to her sides. She pursed her lips in contempt.

"So what…do you still want to keep doing this? Even though you know it's not right?"

Mr. Stockton's shimmering shadow appeared more misplaced than ever.

"It was something…more convenient. Just something promising to make us happy."

With Mr. Stockton's side next to the entrance, Mrs. Stockton could see his long shadow creeping from the light. Her husband bathed in it, his face nearly disappearing into a shade of no discernable humanity, but his eyes she could definitely see.

There were tears after all.


	6. Chapter 6

When they arrived back at the Safehouse, everyone was there to welcome them back with open arms, though it was partly because of the cargo they had just transported. It was a bright new day to discuss the new schedule to come, so it was the best time to set some things straight. Particularly the future living state with the she-Cloaker.

The gate opened with Wolf at the edge. As the van coasted as before into the garage, Wolf handled the gate with relatively less vigor than before to lock it. His lack of nervousness was confirmed by Hoxton when he stepped out to see the guy. As the rest of the crew disembarked and turned their heads to him, Hoxton watched Wolf lock the gate, his hands noticeably slower and curled as if he were handling one of his tripmines.

"So hey. You alright?"

Wolf shrugged. If he was really disturbed, he wasn't showing it.

"I'm just fine Hox."

Hoxton smiled and walked back inside while the rest of the crew pulled up the cargo. Rust was there with a cart to pick up and move the bandaged girl, and after Dallas and Houston gruffly placed the woman on it, said cart was shuffled into the center of attention given by everyone.

The new arrival struggled against the new leather straps before the stone-faced group, soon giving up. She aced her ROTC Marksmanship score, survived the TUC course with flying colors, and completed her 6th year of service for the GenSec MPD. Now she was assaulted, interrogated, and now held captive by the Payday Gang. Not to mention also "hospitalized".

They all wore their appropriate suits and ties, with the exception of 3 wearing a black jacket, an orange flower shirt, and a dreadfully familiar blazer jacket. One of them took a sour look at her and proceeded to walk out of her vision somewhere else.

Just before the group of international robbers could start their meeting, Wolf had placed the laptop to face everyone and its appropriate cables to connect itself to a speaker. Said speaker was carried by Sokol and set onto the center table of the living room. The heisters exchanged small glances of interest on their new guest before switching to the loading screen of the laptop.

Wolf had sat down on his seat softly when the connected speaker finally crackled with ambient static from Bain's end. As usual, Bain's forwarding was preceded by a shuffling of papers before he cleared his voice. The laptop's monitor screen switched on, revealing the darkly obscured figure of Bain. Only the whirr of the upstairs refrigerator and various tapping feet was heard as Bain shifted his papers to read the events for the month.

"Welcome back guys. Now that…everyone's here, I should say that last night I had a package delivered containing all of what you asked for…which Wolf should have picked up."

"It's on the desk upstairs."

"Okay…good then...In that box should also be your new home addresses until I give you new ones again. Sokol and Jimmy will have to share the same address this time."

"Хорошо."

"Gotchya!"

The two regarded each other genially before Chains spoke.

"Hey Bain? What about my postcards?"

"Right I got only one through US customs. The other three have not apparently arrived."

"…Shit."

"It'll take about 2 or 3 weeks before they get to Sweden. Otherwise, it's best you starting sending postcards with less information connecting to our heists. Nosey bastards can't get enough of your relationship as it is."

"Heh. Yeah."

The She-Cloaker muffled a cough from behind her bandages, unintentionally drawing attention to herself in the room. The group flinched inwardly as they recalled the presence of their captive. On the monitor, Bain's sudden stillness seemed to show that the screen was frozen, but the illusion was broken when he shifted to his left and grabbed another paper.

"Hmm…Yes-This is the file of our guest here. Quite little security with the Captain's younger sister."

The heisters took a long look at their guest with nearly the same expressions they had seeing the Captain for the first time in person, but not as austere and more amused. Bonnie and Jacket exchanged pleasantly surprised looks with each other before staring back. Dallas, unsurprised, could see that out of all of them, Wolf's eyes were the biggest. The guest herself was suspended with disbelief and wordlessness (as far as her bandaged face could speak).

"I finally found it after cracking down on some servers that I…found. But looking at this file, her full name is Sarah Neville Winters. Served in the Marine Corps for 4 years…additional military police credit…This and that award…strengths and weaknesses…applied and accepted…recommended by Captain Winters himself...wow. I didn't expect that…Favoritism from Winters, or you're really that good at what you do."

Bain took something from his left and drank. Dallas smirked a little when he put down the drink and addressed the woman.

"Ms. Sarah Winters. You really are one special cookie to get here. We won't hold you in high regards, but we won't treat you lightly either, so you'll have to get comfy for as long as we need you, and it might not even be long."

Sarah fidgeted her hands in her restraints. Clover quickly looked around as soon as she saw her try to remove herself, but Dallas stopped her from moving further.

"No need to write what you want Ms. Winters. I already know what you want to tell me. So no, you can't ask to go back out to the public because we need you to tell us something useful about your gear. Everything about it."

The She-Cloaker craned her neck in private confusion before defiantly straightening it out, saying nothing. Bain's silence seemed unsatisfied as well. Dallas sat up, taking the initiative and spoke to the woman to suggest his own ideas.

"Miss…Sarah. Didn't I already tell you this...You see, you probably already have a couple dozen ideas on how you plan to arrest us, but at least hear us out on this. You're not under any police supervision. No commander, sergeant, lieutenant, or even Cap'n Winters to watch you. Just us."

Sarah seemed to be unfazed, even by how the rest of the crew seemed to edge on immediate coercion. She was steeling her resolve however, to stand the menacing look of the manic looking guy from the couch. His open eyes and puffed up chest seemed to be meant to intimidate her, like some mobster on his wit's end.

"We already have a reputation that we don't mind having, so whatever happens to you is gonna land on us. It's just us watching over you, so anything you say or do won't be held against you, like what you guys tell us at the pound. If anything's gonna happen, **it's not going to be your fault**. So…if something, say, that you wanted to have were to end up here in our Safehouse without any explanation, it would be because one of us or even Bain took it, stole it, or bought it, right?"

Dallas leaned in from Sarah's left and took her chin in his hands. She was definitely weak in the neck. He smiled a little for diplomatic negotiation.

"Do you understand us? Or do we have to get Jacket or Bonnie again?"

Bonnie set down her beer and Jacket cracked his head to look at Dallas and the restrained enforcer, supposedly a decision already expected. Before differences were settled, Bain reinserted himself.

"Just work with us Ms. Winters. Even if your responsibilities say that you oppose our activities, we will at least guarantee your health."

Sarah recoiled away from the laptop but her eyes softened, supposedly recalling the most recent events. Bain set down the paper and edged towards her, his hands disappearing into his silhouette. Dallas set himself down on the couch, before noticing Wolf's still wide eyes and strangely upright body. Wolf then suddenly shut his eyes; his burning, burning eyes. The rest of the gang seemed to ignore his continuing attempts to keep staring at Sarah, but Dallas didn't.

"Jesus Wolf, if you keep staring like that you'll just end up red."

Wolf stared at Dallas, before rubbing his eyes and resting back on the couch. He grunted in fading pain as his eyes recovered. Bain's voice soon came up.

"-this is due to your relation and value to the Washington police…so we will treat you with a greater level of respect as a hostage. You are **our** bargaining chip if this goes to hell, but don't let that get to you."

Sarah blinked for a second, before slowly nodding in affirmation. Bain, satisfied with the response, started to reorganize the papers he had to somewhere else beyond the screen, only stopping to look at another screen. He stopped to read and then looked back at the crew.

"Okay then. I made a schedule to look over…watch over the Safehouse with the guest here. It will be in daily shifts, and today it will be Dragan, Houston, and Sydney. The rest of you are free to do whatever you want. Remember our secrecy, code, and what not. "

"Violence is not our motive but our method?", stated Houston.

"That's close. Behave yourselves for a bit while I reorganize ourfavors for your next hit."

As routine, the rest of the gang started to get up from the monthly meeting while Wolf and Sokol disassemble the whole electronic setup. Wolf disconnected the aux cord and selected the power icon on the screen, before he heard Bain through the monitor speakers.

"Hey Wolf. Can you move out of the way? I'd like to see how the Safehouse looks now."

"Ouh! Sure!"

Wolf obliged and shifted himself out of the laptop camera's view. He watched as Bain's figure seemed to arch forward out of the shadow and observe his monitors very closely. Then there was a flash of white on the screen.

"What?"

Bain's image appeared back.

"Uh. What Wolf?"

Bain's image disappeared again, replaced with a blue screen.

"I can still hear you…? Bad connection?"

Sokol approached and banged the monitor with his hand to make the blue screen disappear.

"Jeez. You should-"

The blue screen appeared again, flashing and fading with greater speed. Sokol glared at the electric blinking and paced himself for a well-thought out solution other than banging on the keyboard.

"Piss också!"

"I think I know what problem is. Wait Wolfie, I will get the tool box for this."

Sokol dashed to Chain's workshop for the miscellaneous while Wolf pulled a small screwdriver from an interior pocket and set out to start to disassemble the monitor.

Sarah paced herself in the chair as they worked. It was going to be a long time before she would break. But she was used to that, having to deal with people who didn't share your view of things and be patient about it. One reason among others as to why she took this line of work. Temporarily, she forgot about the aching in her forearms.

She braced herself against her restraints before falling back into the seat. What would Zee and Barry think? What would dad do? Probably yell and bite and squirm, or anything to get attention outside. Trick one of the guys into releasing her. Anything to get out, but that sounded crazy. She was not in any position to get out, so what she was thinking a few hours before, that she could 'finally bring them what they asked for'?

Even if panicky guy's distraction at his employer's device was usable as a way for the gang to be completely disrupted, she didn't have that much drool or strength to spit on the laptop. Her death wasn't likely to happen, but was it worth it? Just to be brought to such great torture and near starvation? No. It was worth it, because she already dedicated herself to the law and bringing justice when it couldn't be given. She had to wait it out.

The malfunctioning laptop seemed to beep positively in this thought of Sarah's. She oriented her head, taking the imaginary hint that she was thinking in the right direction. She looked at the laptop screen as she raised her head, and she did realize it was a hint that she was thinking in the right direction. A hint from someone else on the other end.

 _HEY. HEY._

The laptop's blue screen was writing white blocky letters, seemingly commanding her attention. A crude message possibly made in the software's art application, but still effective at delivering the 'assuring' hint. Sarah's vision centered on the monitor, her interest and confidence in escaping magnified tenfold. It was jarring and improbable that someone was being this discreet to speak to her at this time of uncertainty.

 _YOU ARE SAFE SARAH WORK WITH THE PAYDAY GANG YOU WILL NOT DIE BUT YOU CAN BE HARMED YOU MUST REMAIN HIDDEN AS W_

The panicky man snapped off a part from the back of the monitor and the screen turned off the rest of the blue message. The Russian man from earlier came and laid out a blanket of tools and replacement parts for the laptop, giving the disruptive experience Sarah just experienced a small glance before turning away. The men muttered to each other as they exchanged metal pieces to fix the laptop, mocking much to Sarah's inability to do anything else.

Sarah took the hint pretty well that someone was watching for and urging her to stay fucking complacent with this. Still, it didn't make sense at all. Was this from the outside or the inside as a trick? How did anyone get close to her? It pointed to the Payday Gang's employer, but it was highly unlikely their interactions had sympathetic motives. This just had to be convoluted somehow for her to not know. She was surprised that even Baingot her name wrong, so was it really her position in the agency that was purposely keeping her real name from even the police dossiers?

Bain was reportedly able to find/steal information that even the police could not find, so who was the person who kept her real name from being said? Only her father and others of similar clearance could know it was mislabeled in the agency dossier...which pointed to another improbable and jarring reality. Someone from the agency was actually contacting her.

Sarah closed her eyes in exacted exhaustion, not intending to see more plays on her safety, but going forward with a tactical dismissal of one of the senses. She could hear wood and metal slamming on some table above, probably caused by one of the careless criminals upstairs. Apparently she could bide her time for a weakness, a misstep, or a way out from her captors, but maybe she was just listening to a ruckus.

"Sydney!"

Sarah's attention perked up to a distant voice. It sounded like a hollow note from a sousaphone.

"Eh' yeah?"

"You wanted to learn how to cook, right? Now is a good time."

* * *

It was a Friday when it happened. Daniel Scarborough donned a white shirt (crumbs from early breakfast toast dotted it) under his coat and a tan set of pants with black boots forced into for possible contact. Begrudgingly, the Payday gang picked a very bad time and place for the MPD to be reach; so much so that they only mobilized 15 men to the site.

The Magellan Facility was the first high-end technology research institute in DC to be raided by an extremely resilient and malicious group, which attracted investigators (the nut teams this time) from all over the country. Even with the evening rain, so much blood and bullet casings stained the concrete and gutters, it was even a wonder if there would be anything worth salvaging as critical evidence from the area. It wouldn't even be wrong to wish that there was another downpour to lighten the load.

Still, without Mother Nature herself deciding to help out, numerous forensic specialists and other crime scene groomers had taken upon themselves to makes sense of what happened here. A dozen or so bodies were found strewn around the stairs, their guns in hand or out of reach at the moment of their death. Others were being lugged outside in labeled body bags from behind the facility's doors, where they would be delivered to the morgue for later autopsy and death warrant confirmation.

A man tapped on his shoulder, forcing Scarborough to rotate his weary self once more to face another mystery of the crime. It was Carlins, one of the newly tasked investigators he saw from briefing, alongside a trio of equally fresh faces; a sun-kissed man with brown spats and overcoat came first, followed on his right a lightly tanned brown woman shaded by her sunglasses and white floppy hat, followed on her right a pale white cop in a cap, packing an antenna on his back that connected to some chest hoisted laptop he was manning.

"Good morning Carlins sir.", the weary lieutenant addressed with a soft salute, which was waved off by an a quickly exasperated Carlins and genially reciprocated by the trio.

"At ease. At Ease. Scarborough, you know you don't have to salute me."

"…oh. Sorry, I was woken up at the wrong time. Must be not enough breakfast."

Daniel cupped a yawn in front of the investigators as a testament. Behind him, he could hear the others yawning as they did their work. Carlins pinched the bridge of his nose at the sight of this.

"Goddamn. The Payday Gang was able to catch us with our pants down. Again. The entire police force is doubling down on crime the wrong way, and now you're just yawning and doing sloppy because of that."

Daniel licked his lips in tiredness. He hadn't drank anything since he was woken at 5, but Carlins certainly had an espresso shot. The other three from the meeting also looked alert. Good for them.

"At least it's cool now. We already finished pre-investigation procedures when you weren't here."

Carlins seemed to release stress from his nose when he heard this. Or it really was that cold this time in the fall.

"Okay. At least you can debrief what you know for the rest of us. We're ready when you're ready."

"Always have been."

A look on the people that followed Carlins showed their equally shared readiness, if not displaying an eagerness to sniff out crime in spite of the condition. Speaking of conditions, the woman in the group looked ready for a sunny day. It was a little misplaced.

"You don't really seem fit for this weather, do you Miss. Mullick?"

"Yeah, I guess it must have shifted faster than I could have dressed."

The woman removed her sunglasses, surveying the scene with growing grimness.

"This was the…Payday Gang? I had never thought I would see this much blood since my time from home."

The woman looked and quickly made her way to a body outline on the stairs, where she instantly got on her knees and deftly traced her eyes around the figure, her analysis ignoring the outstretched hand of the lieutenant. The cop took back his hand and looked in slight bewilderment of the woman to the other gentlemen, Carlins and the pale man offering little reaction, and the overcoat an apology in his eyes.

"Forgive her Lieutenant, she gets like this when she sees chalk lines, but it's how she gets her info in."

"Heh," stated Carlins,"she's like Death's bloodhound for that behavior of hers."

The woman held up her head and a bullet casing in intrigue.

"I heard that, and I don't think that's very flattering. But get over here Buggy. Identify this casing's caliber."

"Coming."

The man with the backpack came from Daniel's left, before squatting himself next to Miss Mullick with his laptop open. Daniel then looked to the man in the overcoat, Shane Weber, approaching with notebook and pencil in hand.

"Alright Scarborough, tell us what you know so far. Oh, and sorry for the late arrival."

"It's fine, you were only 20 minutes at most sir. Follow me up the grass."

Daniel, Carlins and Shane treaded carefully over the scene, avoiding dirtying the excessive evidence on the stairs. Daniel took heavy steps while Carlins and Shane on his right took light steps to not completely disturb the ground.

"So first off…the facility only had a few things stolen. Some hazardous materials from restricted sections, a few hard-drives in a server and possibly some heavy machinery."

Weber looked up from his notebook as he was studiously writing.

"Okay…That seems off from their reported MO. Don't they go for gold or money? Or was it something else?"

"I don't know. The security footage looking over the place didn't show much, so we don't know how they breached. GenSec has provided some audio from the security guards' radios, but they're still working on "corrupted" security video. We have identified a few shoeprints here and there, but that probably won't help since the gang switches shoes every time we find them."

"Did the audio files say something about what they were doing?"

"No. It's a little messy, but they sound like the guys the Gang sent we should know from experience. The GenSec operator said he didn't know that it was them, so he thought everything was fine until an alarm was set off in the IT center."

"Bullshit. GenSec should already have audio profiles of the gang members that operators can identify guards with."

"I know Weber, but GenSec just keeps saying their speaker verification software gets tampered with when the Gang comes in. This happened in the last 15 or so robberies where their security and the Gang are involved."

"Okay then…Bain again."

Daniel and Carlins nodded numbly at the mention.

"Let me guess, it was around 4:30 when it went to hell."

"…Eh' yeah. Around that time. The MPD officer at the time of the Gang's escape, Sergeant Colskin, said he saw the escape vehicle stuck at the facility's entrance over there."

There at the entrance of the facility, Daniel pointed out a 1 by 2 meter hole in the reinforced metal gate at the top of the stairs. They made their way to the hole, where they could see the scratches and tire streaks. Carlins snapped on a blue glove and stepped down to pick up a singed GenSec pass card behind the breached door.

"Then the vehicle drove out and went down to the street and passed the automated road blocks to the next before they could go up. He thought he couldn't pursue until he saw one of the intruders run out from the entrance and kill 5 guys on the stairs."

Carlins put down the pass card and saw the inside of the facility. Two corpsmen were carrying a body bag to another entrance. 2 more body outlines were found on the white floor, not so pristine with the dead men that were supposedly killed at those exact spots. He was to tempted to spit at the fact there was crime scene scrubber work this good in the Gang only dog squads were able to sniff out.

"Looks like they could have used this card to get out and keep the door open, but the alarm must have made them get out loud."

"Probably sir."

"They could left that person back here, but I'm told he still managed to escape."

"That's what they do Weber. Never leave one of their own behind. Usually."

"Yeah, they sure don't. But after the intruder shot down the men and ran with a bag attached to his back, Colskin called another group to shoot at him as he was escaping. There at the public stairs thing that goes to the next street."

Daniel pointed at the gap between the buildings surrounding the Magellan Facility. Carlins and Weber could see this man bounding over the rail and disappearing. But only a madman could run 250 meters with heavy stolen goods and bound over obstacles like it was nothing.

"Colskin says he was only able to see the escape vehicle leave with body armor and weaponry left on the ground. The armor was pretty damn ruined enough that a solid slug could break through."

It really was a madman. Perhaps someone familiar.

"Did the sergeant mention what mask the man was wearing?"

"…uh, yeah. He said he saw a mask with a red mouth and black eyes. Scary as fuck."

"…Wolf. That was Wolf."

Carlins watched Daniel pale over. Never in a morning could you see a man be so awestruck and fearful of another man he only heard of through other fearful men. Wolf, as a name, could only magnify to monstrous heights in the precedence of crime and horror as time passed. As long as he stayed with the Payday Gang of course.

"…shit."

"It's been a while since he got back in the heat of action."

"So he must have been rusty."

"I don't know about that. He still killed 5 men."

"While they were distracted by the vehicle."

"Of course, but he still has this…craziness, that makes him do all of that."

"I'd have to agree. It would be tactically inappropriate to have armor in a quick and quiet robbery."

It was an odd thing to note in a criminal world of efficiency and expertise. But it was about to get odder.

"Hey. Shane. Bloodhound says she's confused about the casing she found on the street."

Daniel, Carlins and Weber turned to face the man with the backpack antenna. His eyes seemed to switch between his screen and the people he was talking to.

"What do you mean Arlington? And don't use that name, she doesn't like it."

"I like it, so it doesn't matter. But she says that casing doesn't look like one you would find fired by any normal civilian or policeman."

Carlins' eyebrow twitched in supposedly expected intrigue. Daniel soon forgot some of his fear and put one of his hands on his hip. Weber however stopped writing.

"What are you talking about? It's probably one of the casings that the Payday Gang uses. They've used weirder rounds ever since they started working with that limp walker Gage and that gun runner from Croatia."

"Ditto."

"I mean, arrows and sharp cards that can pierce our armor? What's next? Pencils?"

"I know, right? But the casing she found matched several different types of rounds guys in the Special Service use. She thinks it's spooky that rounds like that are here in this scene that she doesn't know what to see. Her words: _I don't know if this is the perp or this is one of our guys._ So maybe you have to come over there."

Mullick waved them over from the gap that was pointed out earlier. The eeriness of the casing was more evident once the group collected over where it was found. Just under the public stairs that Wolf could have bounded over and turned to run to his escape.

"I don't know where the discharged round is, but you can probably guess someone fired a round here. Bloodhound said that maybe a bad guy was here, and that person shot it to put them down."

"Yeah, I've seen enough scenes to know the amateur and professional shooter, and there was probably a sneaky shooter here. Buggy also used his foot spray to mark some footprints on the road, even though you could tell through the mud here."

Mullick pointed to foot-shaped prints outlined by mud that gradually disappeared over a long running distance. Weber and Daniel looked on, but Carlins looked open to debate.

"Yes…I sprayed some of the footprint spray to find plastic or leather residue of all the recent footsteps taken on the road, and I could only find 1 particular set of prints that seemed to lead from the stairs to the road. They were in the mud prints."

Weber seemed to glow when he came to a quick assumption. An assumption that could lead to so much more.

"And you're saying that…because the person who was running the set could have fired that special round."

"But Colskin said nothing about more rounds shot when the intruder bounded over the rail."

"You're right Scarbo, but did Wolf have a weapon at the time that could use rounds like this and not make a sound?"

"We found 6 pieces of armor, a Heather submachine gun, and a M308 with…oh that is off."

"You see? This means other members of the Gang may have access to the Special Service rounds, or…"

Here, Weber squatted down behind the stairs and looked over beyond the corner, seeing where the muddy footprints ran to a speeding escape vehicle.

"….someone from the Special Service actually came at the right moment and right place."

"Oh…holy…SHIT. Maybe one of our guys was able to touch one of the Payday Gang guys! Then it means-"

"Highly unlikely Bloodhound. Even the Special Service fail at capturing or neutralizing the Payday Gang as reports say."

"Come on Buggy! We can actually have hope that we can pin down these bastards, because one guy managed to get this close to their escape vehicle! And…!"

"Woah! What you're saying means a lot, and it can't obviously be the case. The force can't have allowed one special agent or officer to step in this scene in sudden mobilization. I know for a fact that the Special Service are authorized to deploy only after MPD makes contact with the Payday Gang for at least 3 minutes. "

"Hey, never doubt what we can do Carlins."

A moment passed before Carlins pulled back his hair. He took a deep breath and nodded. He started off slowly with some ideas.

"…Maybe I can check the armory for any used ammunition and weaponry accessible to the special service. I'll also look through enlistment papers and garrisons for anybody that participated in this. But I highly doubt that anyone from here is able to get close to those guys without ending up dead."

"I highly doubt that this crime scene was fully investigated, so Bloodhound and I will look around more the street to see if other things were dropped."

"Yea...sure Buggy. Maybe there could be guns that we haven't seen yet over there."

"Will you ever stop calling me Buggy? It's a bad nickname."

"Then when you will stop calling me Bloodhound?"

"Oh, when will I stop? I think you'll find-"

Weber waved Arlington and Mullick off as they bickered off in the direction of the empty road. He looked back to his notebook, noticing much of the empty space that had to be filled later.

"Okay, you'll stick with me Scarbo. There has to be more that I have to see with you to make sense of what was stolen."

Daniel admitted to himself that he should never get used to the blood in crime, but he felt he was committing sacrilege at this moment in time. He would be sure to forget it after a nap later in the day.

"Alright sir," he said before following Weber back into the darkness of the facility with energy in his step.

As Daniel and Weber walked up the steps, Carlins looked at the muddy prints that were left behind. If they came to right conclusion, things would go to bigger shit. Somehow he had to redirect attention from that, and keep his ass safe from them.

"…fuck."


End file.
